UNIVERSITY    OF    CALIFORNIA 


FROM    THE    LIBRARY    OF 

PROFESSOR  FELICIEN  VICTOR  FACET 

BY   BEQUEST  OF  MADAME   PAGET 


NO. 

_ 


0 

l/^£ 


MOODS 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 


BY 


EDWARD    ROBESON   TAYLOR 


"  Not  for  arrogant  pride 
Nor  over  boldness  fail  they  who  have  striven 
To  tell  what  they  have  heard,  with  voice  too  weak 
For  such  high  message.     More  it  is  than  ease, 
Palace  and  pomp,  honours  and  luxuries, 
To  have  seen  white  Presences  upon  the  hill 
To  have  heard  the  voices  of  the  Eternal  Gods." 

Efic  of  Hades,— Sir  LEWIS  MORRIS. 

'The  least  of  us  is  not  too  weak 
To  leave  the  world  with  something  done." 

Palinode. — EDMUND  GoSSK. 


D.   P.   ELDER  &   MORGAN    SHEPARD 
SAN    FRANCISCO 

1899 


Copyright,  i8QQ,  by 
EDWARD  ROBHSON  TAYLOR 


PRESS  OF  THE  STANLEY-TAYLOR  COMPA^ 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


TO   MY  WIFE 
AGNES  STANFORD  TAYLOR 

HADST    THOU    NOT    SERVED    MY    WAYWARD    MOOD, 

NOR    LET    MY    LEISURE    HAVE    ITS    WAY, 

'TIS    TRUTH    TO    SAY    THIS    LITTLE    BROOD 

OF    VERSE    WOULD    NOT    HAVE    SEEN    THE    DAY  ; 

EXCEPT    THE    CRUDE,    IMPERFECT    RHYMES 

I    COUPLED    IN    THE    FAR-OFF    TIMES, 

WHEN    DIVINATION    COULD    NOT    SEE 

WHAT    THY    FOND    HEART    SHOULD    BRING    TO    ME  ; 

AND    IF    THE    MUSES    NOW    ENTWINE 

THE    SLENDEREST    THREAD    ROUND    BROW    OF    MINE, 

ONE    HALF    THE    GLORY    SHALL    BE    THINE. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

DEDICATION Ill 

MOODS : .         .1 

My  Muse      ........  3 

Dream        .........  4 

My  Lady  Sleeps      .......  5 

To  Sleep  .                   6 

Reverie            ........  7 

Home         .........  8 

Prayer 9 

Consolation          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .10 

The  Poet 10 

Proof  of  God ii 

Thoughts 12 

Now 15 

Attainment     ........  16 

Sufficiency           .          .          .          .          .          .          .  I? 

Concentration           .......  18 

Ambition   .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  19 

The  Old,   Old  Days 20 

Solitude 21 

Poetic  Art      ........  22 

Life  and  Death 22 

Adversity         .          .           .          .          .          .          .          .  23 

Refuge 24 


MOODS — Continued  : 

Question         ....•••.  24 

To  the  Sonnet   .          .          .          .  -        .         .         .  .      25 

Endeavor        •          •••••••  26 

Song  its  Own  Reward          .          .         .         .         f  .28 

The  Divine  Harmony      .          .         .          ,         .          .  29 

To  a  Marble  Statuette  of  Beatrice          .          .          .  .30 

Dawn    .          .          .          .,          .",          •          .  31 

The  Unfinished  Portrait        .         .         .          .         .  .      32 

Love's  Fears  .          .          .         .         .          .         .          .  33 

Song ^    .  .34 

Song -       .  .         T        .  35 

My  Summer       .          .         .          .         .  _^     .         .  -35 

Deliverance     ........  36 

Work 37 

The  Sawmill 38 

A   Prayer ,          ...      39 

Endure,  Thou  Fainting  Soul     .....  40 

Pine  Not,   Nor  Fret 41 

Beatitude         ........  42 

ON    NATURE'S    BREAST:    .         .         .         .         .         .43 

Nature's  Care  of  Her  Own       .          .           .          .          .  45 

To  the  Sierras 46 

At  the  Presidio  of  San  Francisco       ....  47 

The  Jonquil         ....           ....  48 

Beauty 49 

After  the  Storm           .......  50 

Night ,         .  51 

At  Del  Monte,   California 52 


VI 


ON  NATURE'S  BREAST — Continued: 

On  Some  Landscapes  Painted  by  William  Keith  :  5  3 

I.  The  Golden  Heritage  of  the  Native  Sons     .          .53 

II.  The  Joy  of  Earth            .....  54 

III.  April         .          .          .          .  .  ^       .          .55 

IV.  The  Quiet  Wood            .          .         .          .          ,    -  56 
V          The  Meadow 57 

VI.  The  Enchanted  Wood   .          .                    .          .  58 

VII.  Dawn       .         ..         .          ...          .          .  59 

VIII.  At  Twilight  Time 60 

IX.  The  Unceasing  Round 61 

X.  The  Dying  Year 62 

XI.  The   Fruitless  Quest 63 

XII.  Promise 64 

IN    HUMBLE    PRAISE: 65 

To  Shakespeare 67 

To  Milton 68 

To  Goethe 69 

To  Matthew  Arnold   .......  70 

Robert  Browning     .......  71 

To  Balzac 7^ 

To  Jose-Maria  de  Heredia         .          .          .          .          .  73 

To  Carlyle           .          . 74 

On  Looking  at  Wordsworth's  Engraved  Picture           .  75 

To  Byron 76 

To  Keats 77 

To  Tennyson 79 

Tennyson's  Good  Fortune          .          .          .          .          .  80 

To  Burns  8 1 


Vll 


IN   HUMBLE  PRAISI — Continued: 

To  Walter  Savage  Landor        .         ,         .          .          .  83 

To  Goldsmith     .          .          .         .         .         ,          .          .84 

To  Charles  Lamb   .          .          .          .          ....  85 

To  Swinburne  on  his  Drama         .         .          .         .         .86 

On  Looking  into  the  Poems  of  William  Ernest  Henley       87 
To  Ruskin          .        .  .>         .         •         ,          .         *         .88 
To  William  Blake         •  .          .         .          .         .          .  88 

Christopher  Smart        .          .          .         .          ^         .          .89 

To  William  Watson     »  .         .         .         .         .         „          89 

To  James  Russell  Lowell     .          .          ,•        •  .'    '    •         .     90 
After  an  Evening  with  Longfellow    .        .  •      .   •         ,  91 

On  the  Lyrics  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich       .         ,     .     .     91 
Pope      .........  92 

To  William  Cullen  Bryant       v     .       .  ..       .          .          .93 

Poe        .          .......'.  95 

To  Lloyd  Mifflin         .          .          .          .         ...      96 

Written  in  Lloyd  Mifflin's  "The  Slopes  of  Helicon"          97 
To  Whittier       ........     98 

To  a  Soiled  and  Broken  Volume  of  Bayard  Taylor's  Poems    100 
To  Fitz-Greene  Halleck       .          .          .          .          .          .    101 

To  Walt  Whitman          .          .          .          .          .  102 

To  George  Frederick  Watts,   R.   A.  .          .          .103 

IN   TRIBUTE  : 105 

A.  S.  T 107 

To  Professor  Jacob  Cooper        .          .          .          .         .         107 

To  Dr.  Levi  Cooper  Lane  on  the  Opening  of  Lane  Hospital   108 
George  William  Curtis          .          .          .         .          .          .no 

David  Starr  Jordan ill 


Vlll 


IN  TRIBUTE — Continued: 

To  William  Keith ,  .          .   lix 

On    Reading    the     Posthumously     Published    Volume    of 

Timothy  H.   Rearden                  .         .          .  ,          .   113 

To  my  Friend,  W.  H.  T.         .          .           .  .          .114 

Henry  George     .          .          .          ,          .          .  .          •1I5 

To  Andree's  Carrier  Pigeon      .          .         .  .          .         116 

To  C.  S.  K.       .          .          .          t         ...  .          ."7 

To  Ysaye       .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .122 

To  Bonzig                     ,          »         .          .          .  .          .123 

Perpetua ,  ..         124 

Arria          .          .          .       ....          .  .          .125 

In  the  Convent  Garden   .          .          .          .  .          .         126 

Harro         .'.          .          .          .          .          .  .          .127 

Invocation  to  San  Francisco      .          .          .  .          .         132 

My  Friend           .          .          .          .          .          .  .          •   J33 

IN    MEMORIAM:      .         .         v         ....        135 

P.  T.  T.  .         .         .       ..         ....    137 

Among  the  Wheels          .          .          .          .  .          .         138 

Dreams       .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .139 

To  P.  T.  T.           .         .         .                   .  .         .         140 

Dirge          .          .          .          .          .   '                 .  .          .141 

Out  of  the  Shadow          .          .          .          .  .          .142 


To  Death 


143 


Envoy  .  .          .  .          .          .          .          .          .144 

TRANSLATIONS  : 145 

From  a  Winnower   of  Grain    to    the    Winds    (After  Du 

Bellay] 147 

From   Voltaire :  ...  148 


TRANSLATIONS — Continued: 

To  a  Lady          .          .           .          .          .          .  .'          .148 

To  Madame  du  Chatelet           .          .         .  .       -  .         148 

To  a  Prater        .          ..        •         •         •          .  •          .    149 

Epigram          .          •».         .          •  •          •         149 

Epigram     .          .          .                    .         .         .  .          .    150 

Farewell  to  Life      .          .         .        '  .         ,  .          .         151 

From    Victor  Hugo  :, 153 

The  Tomb  and  the  Rose         .         .         .  .         .        153 

Come  Near  Me  When  I  Sleep     .          .         .  .          .   154 

In  the  Cemetery  of .          .          .  .          .         155 

What  is  Heard  on  the  Mountain           .          .  .          .    157 

From  Alfred  de   Musset :       .           .           .  .           .         i6a 

The  Pelican         .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .162 

The  Poet 163 

Impromptu    in    Response    to    the     Question  :  What     is 

Poetry  ?                 .          .          .          .          .  .                   1 64 

Song           .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .165 

Adieu,   Suzon           .          .          .          .          .  .          .166 

From  Ber anger :                  .           .           .           .  .           .168 

Mary  Stuart's  Farewell    .          .          .          .  .          .168 

Fifty  Years         .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .    171 

Jacques 173 

From   Leconte  de  Lisle:    .          .          .          .  .          .176 

The  Vase 176 

Solar  Hercules    .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .178 

The  Condor's  Sleep          .          .          .          .  .          .179 

To  a  Dead  Poet          .          .          .          .         .  .          .181 

My  Secret   (After  Felix  Arvers)     .          .  .          .         182 

The  Lady's  Answer   (After  Louis  Aigoin)    .  .          .183 


TRANSLATIONS —  Continued  ; 

Philosophy    (After    Taine)         .                     .  .          .         184 

My  Bohemia   (After  Arthur  Rimbaud}  .          .          .185 

From    Goethe:     .          .          .          .          .  .          .186 

The  Violet          .         .         .         ...  .         •         •   lg6 

The  Angler   .          .          ...          .  .          .187 

Under  the  Linden        .                   .      v  .  .         .          .189 

Faust's  Wager         .          ."          .         .     '     .  .          .         19* 

Margaret  at  the  Spinning  Wheel            .'  .          .          .191 

The  Hunter  of  the  Alps   (After  Schiller)  .          .         194 

Love  and  Time   (After  the  Modern   Greek)  .          .          .197 

The  Soldier's  Fate  (After  Prof.   Putxker)  .          .         198 

BENEDICTION                                     .  .          .  201 


Moods 


"  Blest  is  the  man  who  with  the  sound  of  song 

Can  charm  away  the  heartache,  and  forget 
The  frost  of  penury  and  stings  of  wrong, 
And  drown  the  fatal  whisper  of  regret! 
Darker  are  the  abodes 

Of  Kings,   tho'   his  be  poor, 
While  Fancies,  like  the  Gods, 

Pass  thro'   his  door." 
The  Skylark  and  the  Poet. — FREDERICK  TENNYSON. 

"  In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 

Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, — 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart." 

A  Poet's  Epitaph. — WORDSWORTH. 


OF  THE 

(  UNIVERSITY  ) 

OF 


MY  MUSE 


If  that  my  Muse  can  never  hope  to  soar 
Above  the  summits  where  unwasting  snowa 
Are  fellows  of  the  stars; — if  that  she  knows 
No  swelling  note  of  forest,   sea,   or  shore; — 

If  e'en  no  streamlet  of  melodious  lore 

The  tiniest  craft  of  hers  divinely  shows; — 
Or  not  for  her  the  lightest  breeze  that  blows 
In  voiceful  harmony   Parnassus  o'er; — 

Yet  her  dear  self  I  could  not  think  to  chide, 
Nor  deem  her  less  than  some  anointed  saint 
Who  guards  my  soul:   sufficient  unto  me 

If  in  my  deepest  being  she  abide, 

To  hold  my  wandering  thoughts  in  sweet  constraint, 
And  all  that's  noblest  give  me  sight  to  see. 


DREAM 


It  may  be  that  in  some  auspicious  hour, 
When  all  life's  currents  run  serenely  free, 
A  voice  will  come  from  Dreamland  unto  me 
Upborne  on  music  of  celestial  power. 

Then  in  the  garden  of  my  heart  some  flower 
May  burst  to  bloom  in  sudden  ecstasy, 
And  with  delightful,   deathless  fragrancy 
Add  mite  of  glory  to  the  Poet's  dower. 

O  soul,   thou  feedest  on  the  husks  of  hope, 

And  starvest  while  the  things  within  thy  scope 
Lie  all  before  thee  in  their  bounty  spread. 

And  yet,  ah,  let  me  for  at  least  to-day 
Enjoy  the  vision  ere  it  melts  away, 
To  be  with  other  dreams  forever  fled. 


MY  LADY  SLEEPS 

TO    A.     S.     T. 

My  lady  sleeps,  and  sleeps  in  sweetest  peace; 
No  stain  of  tear  is  on  her  restful  face, 
While  placid  smiles  do  there  each  other  chase, 
To  give  assurance  of  her  pain's  release. 

Her  radiant  head,  that  doth  the  pillow  crease 
In  such  serene  repose,  I  fain  would  kiss 
Till  heart  and  soul  were  emptied  of  all  bliss, 
And  love  itself  gave  thankfulness  surcease. 

O  Sleep,  thou  top  of  blessings  !     What  to  thee 
Does  grief-struck,  pain-tormented  man  not  owe, 
Or  how,  without  thee,  from  his  miseries  flee? 

And  now  that  thou  my  lady's  couch  dost  know, 
From  torture's  agony  to  set  her  free, 
Thou  beamest  on  me  with  divinest  glow. 


TO  SLEEP 


Thou  angel  Sleep,  when  I  recall  to  mind 
The  sons  of  Genius,  who  on  soaring  wing 
Have  sung  of  thee  the  choicest  they  could  sing, 
In  jeweled  phrases  goldenly  enshrined 

In  love  perennial  of  humankind, 

I  scarce  durst  try  to  body  forth  the  note 
That  swells  within  my  unmelodious  throat, 
Craving  some  fitting  utterance  to  find; 

But  when  thou  cam'st  on  yesternight  to  me, 
And  stroked  so  tenderly  my  feverous  head, 
That  thought  and  sense  to  sweet  oblivion's  sea 

From  every  grief  and  irritation  fled, 

My  grateful  heart  became  so  full  of  thee, 

That,  scoff  who  may,  my  Muse  and  thou  must  wed, 


REVERIE 


What  realm  is  thine,  thou  gentle  ruler,   Sleep  ! 
All  life  obeys  thee,   while  earth's  countless  graves 
But  point  to  where  thy  ageless  banner  waves, 
And  where  thou  dost  unbroken  vigil  keep. 

Innumerous  messengers  are  thine,  who  leap 
To  do  thy  bidding — noiseless,   nimble  knaves, 
Who  bring  from  out  thy  many-chambered  caves 
Sweet  dreams  wherein  the  troubled  brain  to  steep. 

And  from  thy  choicest  chamber  steals  thy  child 
Poetic  souls  do  know  as  Reverie; 
'Tis  she  whose  fingers  set  the  spirit  free, 

So  that  from  every  fleshly  hindrance  isled, 

It  may  with  Fancy  roam  the  woodland  wild, 
Or  sail  upon  Imagination's  sea. 


HOME 

TO    A.     S.     T.     AND    P.     C.     L. 

Of  earthly  things  thou  greatest  blessing — Home  I 

Safe  refuge  where  the  overburdened  soul 

Lays  down  its  weary  weight  of  toil  and  care, 

To  gain  refreshment  in  the  arms  of  rest. 

In  deep  dreams  there  the  frets  of  life  are  hushed, 

Its  turmoils  and  its  woes,  while  the  stopped  ears 

Hear  nought  of  clamor's  unrelenting  noise 

That  roars  tumultuous  in  the  world  without. 

And  there  the  mistress  of  the  blest  abode 

In  sweetest  tyranny  serenely  sways 

Her  silver  sceptre  over  all  the  house, 

Until  each  feverous,  discordant  pulse, 

Ruled  by  the  music  of  her  bounteous  love, 

Beats  to  the  measure  of  harmonious  peace. 


PRAYER 

Thou  Power  divine  man  feels  so  well 

Yet  in  thy  fullness  never  knows, 
That  in  the  humblest  weed  doth  dwell, 

As  in  the  queenliest  rose  that  blows, 
And  in  the  tides  of  all  the  seas, 

And  in  the  heart  of  man  and  beast; 
That  soundest  all  the  harmonies 

From  nature's  greatest  to  her  least; 

Mayhap  no  merely  human  prayer 

Addressed  to  thee  can  aught  avail; 
Mayhap  thy  forces  have  no  care 

For  joyful  song  or  woeful  wail; — 
But  when  with  weariness  we  faint, 

When  burdens  crush,  or  griefs  dismay, 
When  faiths  have  lost  their  old  restraint, 

We  fall  upon  our  knees  to  pray. 

And  wherefore  should  we  not,   if  thou 
Art  what  we  fain  believe  thou  art — 
If  thou  thy  presence  dost  avow 


Prayer  In  all  the  beatings  of  our  heart  ? 

Call  then,   O  Soul,  thine  angels  blest; 

Drive  out  the  host  of  bestial  sin; 
Plant  conquering  courage  in  the  breast, 
And  let  the  spirit's  glory  in. 

CONSOLATION 

The  world  is  hard,   and  selfishness  supreme; 
The  love  of  man  for  man  is  all  a  dream, 
And  e'en  Religion  but  a  worn-out  theme  .   .   . 

Ofttimes  it  seemeth  so. 

Still,  souls  there  are  who  do  themselves  forget; 
Man  strives  and  bleeds  for  man;  and  even  as  yet 
Religion  soothes  us  in  our  toil  and  fret  .   .   . 

Ofttimes  'tis  surely  so. 

THE    POET 

He  crushed  his  heart  for  wine  of  song 
With  which  the  soul  of  man  to  glad; 

But  who  of  all  the  careless  throng 

Could  dream  how  mad  he  was — how  mad  ! 
10 


PROOF  OF  GOD 


Dost  ask  for  proof  of  God  ? — Thou  mayst  as  well 
Ask  of  the  daisy,   as  it  meekly  blows, 
Whence  cometh  it,  or  how,  or  why  it  grows; 
Or  pray  the  world-compelling  genius  tell 

The  secret  cunning  of  his  magic  spell; — 

But  when  their  hearts  lie  close  against  thine  own 
Until  their  pulse-beats  thrill  thee  to  the  bone, 
Doubt's  demons  perish  in  their  self-made  hell. 

The  wings  of  Reason  beat  themselves  in  vain 
Against  the  ether  of  a  soundless  air, 
To  fold  at  last  in  logic's  dull  despair. 

Divinely  ordered  is  this  fruitless  lore: 

For  were  God  proved,   all  mystery  would  be  plain, 
And  man  himself,   as  man,   could  be  no  more. 


i  i 


THOUGHTS 


A  dream  came  o'er  me,  and  I  thought 
A     hundred  ships,  blown  from  the  East, 

To  me  had  rarest  cargoes  brought, 

With  which  to  make  a  wondrous  feast. 

But  as  the  ships  at  anchor  lay, 

A  storm-wind  blew  from  out  the  West, 
And  when  I  looked,  at  break  of  day, 

No  ships  were  seen,  no  bidden  guest. 


We  cannot  all  be  wisely  great, 
Much  less  be  greatly  wise; 

To  few  alone  is't  given  by  fate 
To  read  the  mysteries, 

And  in  the  mass  of  rubbish  find 

The  food  that  nourishes  mankind — 
But  none  there  is  who  cannot  move 
The  world  a  little  with  his  love. 


12 


The  child  holds  out  its  loving  hand  Thoughts 

For  gifts  supplied  from  fairyland; 
Life  lies  for  it  in  smiles  and  tears, 
Unvexed  by  doubt,  unharmed  by  fears. 

Youth  sees  beyond  the  fairyland, 
And  having  life's  horizon  scanned, 
It  swells  with  self-conceit  to  know 
That  all  is  plain  from  high  to  low. 

In  manhood  knowledge  brings  her  lore, 
To  gender  doubts  still  more  and  more, 
Until  at  last  it  dares  to  know 
That  all  is  dark  and  will  be  so. 

But  through  the  dark  the  sage  shall  see 
The  stars  that  light  the  life  to  be, 
Assured  he  shall  forever  grow, 
But  never  can  completely  know. 


The  deepest  poem  is  the  one  we  feel, 
And  not  the  one  that  language  can  reveal; 
Oh,  times  there  are  when  music  stirs  the  soul 
Beyond  mere  words  to  measure  or  control, 

13 


Thoughts       And  myriad  thoughts  flit  ghostlike  through  the  brain 
That  all  the  tongues  of  earth  could  never  chain. 
Let  artist  paint  with  ne'er  so  deep  a  speech, 
Great  worlds  there  are  he  cannot  hope  to  reach. 


One  doubts,  one  fears,  one  calls  on  circumstance, 
And  one  is  blown  by  every  wind  of  chance; 
While  yet  another  looks  into  his  soul, 
And  sails  serenely  to  his  destined  goal. 


Like  him  who,   drawn  by  glorious  heights  beyond, 

Is  forced  to  cross  the  intervening  flood 

By  dangerous  step  from  slippery  stone  to  stone, 

So  we,  in  this  tumultuous  life,  but  step 

In  trembling  from  one  trouble  to  another, 

While  Error  waits  with  her  remorseless  train 

In  hope  to  whelm  us  in  the  raging  wave. 


NOW 


Oh,  do  not  wait  until  in  earth  I  lie 

Before  thou  givest  me  my  rightful  meed; 

Oh,   do  not  now  in  coldness  pass  me  by, 

And  then  cry  praises  which  I  cannot  heed. 

If  I  have  helped  thee  on  thy  weary  way, 

Or  lightened  in  the  least  thy  burden's  weight, 

Haste  with  love's  tokens  ere  another  day 

Shall  pierce  thee  with    the  fatal  words,    "Too  late." 

The  present  moment  is  thy  time  to  live: 

The  Past  is  gone,   the  Future  may  not  be; 

If  thou  hast  treasure  of  thy  heart  to  give 

To  hungry  souls,   bestow  it  speedily; — 

For  sweet  Love's  sake,  let  not  to-morrow's  sun 
Tempt  thee  to  wait  before  thou  see  it  done. 


ATTAINMENT 


We  sigh  for  things  we  scarce  may  hope  to  gain, 
And  which,  if  all  our  own,  would  give  no  peace; 
We  vainly  toil  and  struggle  to  release 
To  knowledge  nature's  secrets;  we  complain 

That  'tis  not  given  us  to  break  some  chain, 

To  scale  some  peak,  to  fetch  some  golden  fleece, 
To  do  some  mighty  deed  whose  light  shall  cease 
Only  when  moons  no  longer  wax  and  wane, 

JTis  thus  we  make  a  mockery  of  life, 
And  miss  the  blessing  at  our  very  hand: 
For  Faith  and  Love,  with  glory  as  of  sun, 

Illume  the  path  to  Peace  through  every  strife; 
No  work  is  futile  that  is  nobly  planned; 
No  deed  is  little  if  but  greatly  done. 


16 


SUFFICIENCY 


Let  vulgar  Malice  work  its  venomed  will 

Against  the  heart  that  would  have  given  its  blood 
To  shield  the  thing  which  strikes  it;  let  the  brood 
Of  Envy  swarm  like  bees  a-hiving,  and  distil 

Poisons  more  sure  than  those  of  Borgian  skill; 
Let  Friendship  wither,   and  a  common  good 
No  more  be  nourished  by  her  nectared  food; 
And  even  dear  Love  insanely  stab  and  kill. 

Let  all  this  be,  with  ills  as  yet  unguessed; 
And  still,   thou  shalt  as  ocean  wind  be  free, 
If  bravely  thou  dost  seek  thy  strength  and  rest 

Within  thyself,  bending  compliant  knee 

To  Conscience  only,  and  in  peace  possessed 
Of  that  all-crowning  grace — Humility. 


CONCENTRATION 

TO  L.    C.    L. 

Mark  how  the  florist's  cunning  hand  compels 
That  weed  unique,  the  strange  chrysanthemum, 
To  crown  one  lonely  stalk  whose  blossomed  sum 
To  giant  size  and  gorgeous  beauty  swells — 

The  forces  pulsing  in  its  myriad  cells 

Concentring  all  their  magic  and  their  power 
To  build  the  structure  of  a  single  flower, 
Wherein  the  plant  its  dazzling  triumph  tells. 

So  shouldst  thou  have  the  will,   O  struggling  soul, 
To  hold  thy  thoughts  and  actions  to  the  pole 
Of  one  imperious,   exclusive  aim; 

Then  may  tby  stalk  a  wondrous  blossom  bear, 
Which  shall  for  thee  achievement's  glory  wear, 
And  be  to  others  as  a  sign  of  flame. 


AMBITION 


"  Long  have  I  sued,   and  still  have  sued  in  vain;-— 
My  one  and  only  love,   why  holdst  me  off 
With  laughing  banter  and  with  bitter  scoff? 
Wilt  never  ease  my  heart's  unceasing  pain?" 

"If  thou'lt  be  brave,"   said  she,    "thy  sorrow's  rain 
Shall  breed  a  harvest;  look!   seest  thou  yon  peak 
That  lifts  at  dizzy  height  its  snowy  beak  ? 
Bear  me  to  that,   and  thou  my  heart  shalt  drain." 

Upon  his  back  he  took  the  tempting  maid, 

And  upward  went;  up  and  still  up  he  strode, 
The  distant,   glittering  peak  his  constant  guide; 

Still  up,   o'er  Alp  on  Alp,   he  strained,   nor  stayed 
Till   to  the  pinnacle  he  bore  his  load — 
Then  like  an  idiot  laughed  .    .    .   and  gasping  .    .    . 
died. 


THE   OLD,    OLD   DAYS 

TO  L.    M.    L.    AND  J.    A.    Q. 

O  golden-hearted,  richly-hallowed  days 

That   loom    through    deepening    mists   on   memory ' 

shore, 

When  boyhood  fed  from  joy's   unmeasured  store 
As  hope  sang  loud  her  sweetest  roundelays ! 

How  romped  we  in  the  wood's  far-opening  ways 
When  irksome  studies  for  the  time  were  o'er; 
How  plied  we  games  in  their  abounding  lore, 
How  felt  as  gods  when  victory  led  to  praise  ! 

The  Master's  strenuous  voice  ceased  long  ago, 
While  few  of  all  that  throng  on  earth  can  be, 
And  these  are  burdened  with  the  weight  of  years ; 

Yet  on  that  fruitful  spot  still  others  glow 

With  youthful  fire  and  sport  the  same  as  we, 
Undreamt  the  future's  agonies  and  tears. 


20 


SOLITUDE 


Thy  aid  I  supplicate,    O   Solitude, 

For  one  sore  wounded  in  the  unending  strife 
That  makes  such  burden  of  our  daily  life; 
Let  me  with  thy  repose  be  deep  imbrued; 

On  thy  smooth  stream  bear  off  each  feverous  mood, 
And  float  my  spirit  to  the  Isles  of  Calm 
Where  grows  luxuriant  thy  healing  balm, 
And  where  mad  clamor  never  may  intrude. 

Where  thou  wilt  take  me  it  doth  matter  not, 
For  where  thou  art  my  spirit's  peace  will  be; 
The  mind,  fresh-winged,  will  rise  to  nobler  thought, 

And  radiant  sprites  from  Dreamland  visit  me, 
As  from  my  covert,  with  fresh  beauties  fraught 
Looms  Life's  vast,  varicolored,  pulsing  sea. 


21 


POETIC  ART 

The  cities  vanish;  one  by  one 
The  glories  go  that  glories  won; 
At  Time's  continuous,  fateful  call 
The  palaces  and  temples  fall; 
While  heroes  do  their  deeds  and  then 
Sink  down  to  earth  as  other  men. 
Yet,  let  the  Poet's  mind  and  heart 
But  touch  them  with  the  wand  of  Art, 
And  lo!  they  rise  and  shine  once  more 
In  greater  splendor  than  before. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

Life  is  not  all  in  all, 

Nor  yet  is  Death; 
But  from  the  Vast  they  call, 

And  each  one  saith: 
I  am  the  one  in  whom  thy  being  lies; 
Accept  thy  fate,  nor  fear  me  when  I  rise. 

22 


ADVERSITY 


O  friend,  when  glad  Fortuna  comes  to  thee 
With  hands  that  offer  more  than  liberal  spoils, 
Beware,  lest  slyly  hid  a  serpent  coils, 
Thy  soul  to  poison  with  Prosperity. 

Thou  never  canst  seraphic  visions  see 
As  noble  recompense  for  strenuous  toils, 
Unless  within  thy  deepest  being  boils 
Some  tear-fed  fountain  of  Adversity. 

The  steel  that  Florence  drove  in  Dante's  heart 
He  fashioned  to  a  lyre  whereon  with  ease 
He  deathless  rose  above  the  hells  of  hate  ; 

And  when  life-wearied  Milton  sat  apart, 

Lonely  and  blind,  he  swept  those  organ  keys 
Whose  tones  from  age  to  age  reverberate. 


REFUGE 

TO    PROFESSOR    ALBIN    PUTZKER 

The  winds  of  grief  were  driving  him 

Upon  the  rocks  despair  had  reared, 
When  in  the  distance  faintly  dim 

The  Star  of  Poesy  appeared ; 
And  as  toward  her  his  face  he  turned 

With  hope  and  courage  in  his  breast, 
She  then  with  great  refulgence  burned, 

To  light  him  to  the  port  of  Rest. 


QUESTION 

Outside,  the  rain  is  dreary, 
Inside,  my  heart  is  weary ; 
Outside,  the  winds  are  sighing, 
Inside,  my  hopes  are  dying; 
O  Earth,  where  is  thy  beauty? 
O  Soul,  where  is  thy  duty  ? 

24 


TO  THE  SONNET 


Bound  in  the  fetters  of  thy  narrow  frame 

What    souls    have   conquered    song ! — Here    Dante's 

woe, 

As  Petrarch's,   swells  to  joy;  here  Angelo 
Greatens  the  glory  of  his  mighty  name; 

'Tis  here  that  Shakespeare  bares  his  breast  to  blame, 
And  here  that  Milton  stoops,  great  strains  to  blow; 
Here  Wordsworth's  notes  with  rapturing  music  flow, 
While  Keats  divinely  glows  with  quenchless  flame. 

Yea,  all  the  rhymsters  of  our  modern  day 

Crowd  round  thy  shrine,   and  beg  thee  to  enring 
Their  brows  with  leaves  of  thy  immortal  bay; 

Such  crown  is  not  for  me,  but  prithee  fling 
Thy  spell  upon  me,   so  at  least  I  may 
Yet  dream  of  beauties  I  can  never  sing. 


ENDEAVOR 
I 

"  I  discern 
Vain  aspiration, — unresultivc  work." 

— Mrs.  Browning's  "  Prometheus  Bound  "  of  SEsthjlui. 

Still  am  I  tossed  upon  a  troubled  sea, 

Puzzled  and  doubting  how  to  make  my  way; 

Resultless  day  follows  resultless  day, 

And  even  my  dreams  no  solace  bring  to  me. 

At  Duty's  call,  unheeding  other  plea, 

Have  I  pushed  forward,   scornful  of  delay, 
Ne'er  yielding  sense  to  indolence's  sway, 
Nor  grieving  over  what  might  never  be. 

And  now,  the  years  seem  shorter  as  they  run, 
Nor  dares  my  life  to  hope  for  many  more, 
Or  should  they  come,  that  they  will  truly  bless. 

The  best  that  lay  within  me  has  been  done; 
And  as  an  end  all  vainly  I  deplore 
Endeavor's  dreary  waste  of  fruitlessness. 


26 


II 


Thou  wavering  soul,  what  note  is  this  to  sound?  Endeavor 

Dost  prate  of  Duty,  yet  art  satisfied 

With  what  thou  hast  in  scarce  half-struggle  tried? 

i 
Dost  beat  thy  wings  against  thy  self-made  bound, 

Forgetful  that  in  Life's  unresting  round 

All  marvellously  wondrous  things  abide 

For  him  who  seeks  and  will  not  be  denied? 

And  that  the  humblest  may  not  go  uncrowned? 
O  blinded  one,  unhood  thy  spirit's  eyes, 

So  they  may  truly  see  the  world  without, 

And  that  still  other  world  which  stirs  within; 
Then  canst  thou  soar  above  thy  miseries 

To  heights  undarkened  by  the  clouds  of  Doubt, 

And  where  to  Victory  thou  mayst  be  kin. 


27 


SONG   ITS   OWN   REWARD 

TO    JOHN    MUIR 

Song  is  its  own  reward,  so  said  to  me 

My  clear-eyed,  toiling  friend  whose  jewelled  prose 
With  joy  of  being  sings  as  on  it  flows, 
Bearing  the  thoughts  that  teach  us  to  be  free  ; 

Thou  shouldst  not  hush  one  note  of  Poesy 
That  from  Parnassian  heights  rejoicing  blows, 
Though  none  of  all  the  world  its  music  knows, 
Or  knowing  cares  for,  saving  only  thee. 

O  friend,  thou  nursling  of  the  mountain*  s  breast, 
True  brother  of  the  glacier  and  the  pine, 
'Tis  meet  thy  voice  this  lesson  has  impressed ; 

For  do  not  all  these  noble  kin  of  thine 
Ring  out  forevermore  their  strains  divine 
Though  not  one  soul  may  hearken  to  be  blest ! 


28 


THE   DIVINE   HARMONY 

TO    MRS.     L.   C.    LANE 

A  single  soul — what  microscopic  mite 

When  measured  'gainst  the  universe  of  things ! 

A  voice  that  for  a  moment  sobs  and  sings, 

And  then  seems  lost  in  silence  of  the  night. 
But  yet  how  great  the  meanest,  merest  sprite 

When  measured  in  the  universe  of  things  ! 

For  there  'tis  one  with  earth's  supremest  kings, 

And  bathes  in  unextinguishable  light. 
It  must  be  that  the  note  of  every  soul 

Is  needed  in  the  harmonies  that  roll 

And  throb  eternally  with  power  divine ; 
And  I,   dear  friend,  when  stars  were  fair  to  see, 

Have  drank  the  summit's  deep  delights  with  thee, 

As  shone  refulgent  the  assuring  sign. 


29 


TO  A   MARBLE  STATUETTE  OF 
BEATRICE 


When  youthful  Dante's  roving,  marvellous  eyes 
Upon  the  universe  began  to  ope 
As  if  with  presage  of  their  future  scope, 
They  saw  thy  great  original  arise ; 

And  then  he  thrilled  as  one  divinely  wise, 
For  well  he  knew  the  star  of  faith  and  hope 
That  should  lead  on  his  travailing  soul  to  cope 
With  all  the  hells  beneath  storm-clouded  skies. 

And  now  in  marble  spotless  as  her  name 
Thou  dost  compel  such  tribute  to  her  fame 
As  if  her  own  deep  gaze  upon  us  beamed ; 

For  thine  the  art  wherein  we  newly  see 

Some  hint  of  that  which  Dante  greatly  dreamed 
Of  woman's  loveliness  and  purity. 


DAWN 

TO    JAMES    ADDISON    QUARLES 

Now  radiant  Dawn  unlocks  her  roseate  doors, 
Whence  all  her  featly-footed,   swarming  band 
Streams  swift  along  the  sleep-encompassed  land, 
And  in  the  skies  on  fiery  pinion  soars. 

The  pauseless  glory  sweeps  by  moaning  shores 

Where    Storm's    poor  victims    strew    the  shuddering 

strand, 

While  from  the  heights  where  trees  rejoicing  stand 
It  through  my  lady's  window  softly  pours. 

And  as  the  fulgent  beams  grow  still  more  bright, 
Man  flees  the  darker  deeds  of  tempting  Night 
And  meets  with  fresh  resolve  the  new-born  Day. 

My  dear  old  friend,  when  comes  to  us  anon 
That  earthly  Night  no  power  can  roll  away, 
May  we  together  greet  a  newer  Dawn. 


THE  UNFINISHED  PORTRAIT 

TO    W.     K.     AND    E.     M. 

"I  cannot  strike  the  color  for  this  eye, 
Nor  bend  the  arch  above  it; — ah,  to-day 
My  brush's  cunning,  do  the  best  I  may, 
In  very  mockery  fain  would  pass  me  by." 

Thus  spake  the  Master  as  he  stood  anigh 
His  easel,   where  a  young  man's  portrait  lay 
So  near  to  perfectness  it  seemed  to  say, 
Give  me  not  up  ere  once  again  you  try. 

Then  with  a  fury  such  as  genius  knows, 

He  spread  his  pigments  all  that  portrait  o'er 
Until  a  landscape  shone  divinely  there; 

And  in  the  glories  of  its  great  repose 
Imagination  feels,  as  ne'er  before, 
Some  hidden  spirit  breathe  through  all  the  air. 


LOVE'S   FEARS 

Thou  dost  not  love  me — that  I  see; 

So  let  us  part, 
Although  I  feel  it  means  to  me 

A  breaking  heart. 

But  better  thus  than  have  thee  near 

From  day  to  day, 
And  freeze  with  oft-recurring  fear 

That  love's  away. 

One  chilling  kiss,  and  all  is  o'er 

Between  us  twain, 
And  then,  and  then,  perchance  no  more 

To  meet  again; 

No  more  to  have  thy  presence  fill 

My  leisure  hours; 
No  more  to  know  that  earth  has  still 

For  me  some  flowers. 

No  more  means  much; — that  thou  and  I 

Life's  wine  could  drink 
From  different  cups  and  peace  not  die, 
'Twere  vain  to  think. 

33 


Love's     'Tis  past; — I  feel,   when  drawing  nigh 
Fears  The  fateful  edge, 

Affection  come  with  stronger  tie 
And  newer  pledge. 

We  cannot  part — the  love  of  years 

Shall  not  be  slain 
By  all  the  misbegotten  fears 

That  e'er  caused  pain. 

Then  let  the  darkness  leave  thine  eye, 

And  on  thy  breast 
My  all  forgiven,   foolish  cry 

Be  hushed  to  rest. 

SONG 

I  dare  be  sworn  thou  lov'st  me;  but  thy  word 
Is  so  at  odds  with  what  thou  dost  accord, 
That  torn  with  doubt  I  oft  do  sadly  fain 
To  never  look  upon  thy  face  again. 

But  when  once  more  thy  beauty  fills  mine  eye, 
Thou  art  to  me  all  things  beneath  the  sky, 
And  then,   despite  all  doubt,   I  fondly  fain 
To  never  lose  thee  from  my  sight  again. 

34 


SONG 

Always  be  the  same,  sweetheart, 
Or  we  must  forever  part; 
Smiles  to-day  and  frowns  to-morrow 
Can  but  bring  us  anxious  sorrow; 
Be  the  same  as  now  thou  art, 
And  we  shall  not,   cannot,  part. 

Do  I  doubt  thee  ? — never !  never  ! — 
Love  shall  hold  us  fast  forever; 
Folded  in  thine  eager  arms, 
Life  for  me  can  have  no  harms; 
Pillowed  on  thy  fragrant  breast, 
Come  what  may  I  must  be  blest. 


MY  SUMMER 

Winter  once  more  comes  on  apace 
With  chilling  wind  and  lowering  sky, 

But  summer  still  makes  glad  thy  face, 
And  in  its  warmth  I  restful  lie. 

35 


DELIVERANCE 

IN    MEMORY    OF    J.     T.     H. 

Thus  spake  my  friend: — What  bliss  can  fill  the  breast 
When  drawn  from  deepest  wells  of  dark  despair, 
I  knew  not  till  I  ventured  forth  to  fare 
On  ocean's  paths  by  tempest's  wrath  possessed: 

Throughout  the  night  in  fearsome,   sick  unrest, 
We  felt  our  helpless  ship  reel  blindly  where 
Storm's  unexhausted  legions  filled  the  air 
And  rode  with  fury  on  each  billow's  crest. 

But  when  the  last  dim  ray  of  hope  seemed  gone, 
The  winds  drew  off,   and  long-awaited  dawn 
With  beauty's  topmost  glory  lit  the  sea; 

And  as  the  sun  above  the  horizon  shone, 

Beyond  the  waves  with  many  a  rainbow  sown 
I  saw  my  child  once  more  upon  my  knee. 


WORK 


To  age-worn  palace  veiled  with  vine  and  tree 
I  listless  came  one  summer  afternoon, 
A  self-invited  guest  who  craved  the  boon 
Of  peaceful  idlesse  in  that  privacy. 

And  then,  as  swung  the  portal  back  for  me, 
I  saw  some  inmates  lounge  as  half  in  swoon, 
While  others  gaped  and    yawned,   tried  trivial  tune, 
Turned  a   few    leaves,    then    wandered    aimlessly. 

And  when  Ennui,  the  jewelled  queen  of  these, 
Uprising  from  her  bed  of  poppied  ease, 
Drawled  greeting  such  as  indolence  could  spare, 

I  fled  aghast  the  humblest  tool  to  seize, 
And  as  its  strokes  with  music  filled  the  air 
Peace  spread  her  wings  in  holy  blessing  there. 


37 


THE  SAWMILL 


The  demon  Sawmill  said,  I  lack  for  food 

Wherewith  to  cram  this  craving  maw  of  mine, 

That  spite  of  nature  and  of  law  divine 

Would  gorge  on  all  that's  grandest  in  the  wood. 

Then  they  who  madly  serve  the  monster's  good, 
Mid  jocund  laughter,  slew  a  giant  pine, 
As  bright-eyed,  cheery  morn  with  flaming  sign 
Awoke  to  life  the  slumbering  solitude. 

For  immemorial  years  this  fallen  one 

Had  been  so  loved  by  earth  and  air  and  sun, 
It  seemed  with  beauty  for  the  ages  clad; 

And  as  its  massive  trunk  and  members  lie 
Dissevered  and  a  wreck,   we  marvel  why 
The  demon  and  its  slaves  can  still  be  glad. 


A  PRAYER 


Why  mockest  me,  thou  dearest,  loveliest  Muse? 
When  all  my  days  I've  sought  thy   jeweled  shrine, 
To  offer  there  this  heart  and  soul  of  mine, 
How  canst  thou  still  thy  countenance  refuse? 

Wouldst  thou  but  grant  thy  favor,   I  should  choose 
No  other  worship  saving  only  thine, 
Till  blest  by  thee  my  song,  thus  made  divine, 
Might  rise  to  music  it  could  never  lose. 

My  foolish  clamor  beats  itself  in  vain 
Upon  the  rock  of  thy  unyielding  breast, 
And  dies  away  in  inarticulate  moan. 

I  chide  thee  not;  but  oh,  let  live  the  strain 
Which  in  my  being  ever  unexpressed 
Still  keeps  me  better  than  a  desert  stone. 


39 


ENDURE,  THOU  FAINTING  SOUL 


Endure,   thou  fainting  soul,   thou  must  endure: 

Though  thou  hast  labored  and  hast  met  but  scath; 
Though  baseness  sicken  thee;  though  Fortune's  wrath 
Should  rack  and  rend  thee  past  all  hope  of  cure, 

And  Love  should  feign  herself  too  stripped  and  poor 
To  help  or  bless,  until  at  last  it  seems 
That  Death  should  end  thy  unresultive  dreams, 
Even  then,   despairing  soul,  thou  shouldst  endure; — 

For  lo,  behold  !  all  fellows  are  thy  kin 
From  mightiest  sun  to  merest  atomy; 
Yea,  all  that  is,  which  shall  be,  and  has  been, 

In  that  mysterious,  vast  immensity 

In  which  'tis  given  thee  to  play  thy  part — 
Then  forward,   with  fresh  courage  in  thy  heart  ! 


40 


PINE  NOT,  NOR  FRET 

Pine  not,   nor  fret : 
The  rains  will  fall, 
The  sun  will  shine, 
The  flowers  all  bloom, 
And  grains  and  fruits 
Their  riches  yield; 
The  wheels  will  turn, 
And  ever  turn, 
And  ships  still  sail, 
And  ever  sail. 
But  do  thy  part, 
With  faith  and  love, 
As  best  thou  canst, 
And  nought  on  earth 
Can  work  thee  ill, 
Or  make  thee  feel 
One  pang  of  fear. 


4-1 


BEATITUDE 

TO    J.     A.     Q^ 

Thrice  blest  is  he,  who,  when  Death  comes 

To  bear  him  captive  to  the  unknown  realm, 

Which  lies  beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  ken, 

Can  look  serenely  in  his  awful  face, 

And  hear  the  summons  with  complacent  smile; 

Who,  looking  back  upon  his  earthly  years, 

Can  see  the  trees  of  never-fading  green, 

Which    flourish    from    the  seeds,  he    planted,   of  good 

deeds; 

And  who,   with  blessing  on  the  ones  he  loved, 
And  those  who  loved  him  in  his  worldly  walks, 
Where  he  dispensed  the  goodness  of  his  heart, 
Can  look  his  last  farewell  without  a  sigh, 
And  fall  asleep  as  peacefully  as  does 
A  wearied  child  upon  its  mother's  breast. 


42 


On   Nature's   Breast 


"  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  • 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man  j 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 
Or  let  me  die  !  " 

WORDSWORTH. 

"  Underfoot  the  divine  soil,  overhead  the  sun." 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


NATURE'S  CARE  OF  HER  OWN 

TO    J.     M.     AND    T.     M. 

Nature  takes  loving  thought  of  all  her  own 

With  marvellous  cunning  and  with  watchful  eye, 
So  that  her  countless  brood  may  multiply, 
Nor  leave  their  mother  desolate  and  lone. 

To  the  wild  fruits  by  care  of  man  unknown, 
That  ripe  where  winter  at  his  stormiest  blows, 
She  gives  more  seeds  and  better  than  to  those 
In  cultured  garden  delicately  grown. 

And  so  in  him  that  on  the  rugged  breast 
Of  mountain  finds  his  joy  and  his  repose, 
Who  makes  the  pine  his  fellow,   and  with  zest 

Treads  the  great  glaciers  and  their  kindred  snows, 
A  strength  is  planted  that  in  direst  test 
Dares  all  the  devils  of  Danger  to  oppose. 


45 


TO  THE  SIERRAS 


Thou  beckonest  to  me  and  I  come  once  more; 
Once  more  to  lay  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 
And  feel  thy  easeful,  all-sufficing  rest 
Body  and  mind  deliciously  steal  o'er. 

My  soul  so  hungers  for  thy  bounteous  store, 
That  every  heart-beat  of  its  riches  sings, 
And  every  thought,  on  love's  unflagging  wings, 
Leaves  far  behind  the  city's  maddening  roar. 

'Twere  joy  enough  to  have  thee  once  again, 
If  such  possession  were  my  very  last 
This  side  of  death:   to  leave  the  haunts  of  men, 

And  in  thy  solitudes,  bespeaking  vast, 
Entrancing  mysteries,   to  be  as  one 
With  sons  and  stars  and  all  they  look  upon. 


AT  THE  PRESIDIO   OF  SAN  FRANCISCO 


The  rose  and  honeysuckle  here  entwine 
In  lovely  comradeship  their  amorous  arms; 
Here  grasses  spread  their  undecaying  charms, 
And  every  wall  is  eloquent  with  vine; 

Far-reaching  avenues  make  beckoning  sign, 
And  as  we  stroll  along  their  tree-lined  way, 
The  songster  trills  his  rapture-breathing  lay 
From  where  he  finds  inviolable  shrine. 

And  yet,  within  this  beauty-haunted  place 
War  keeps  his  dreadful  engines  at  command, 
With  scarce  a  smile  upon  his  frowning  face, 

And  ever  ready,  unrelaxing  hand  .   .   . 

We  start  to  see,  when  dreaming  in  these  bowers, 
A  tiger  sleeping  on  a  bed  of  flowers. 


47 


THE  JONQUIL 

TO    W.    B.     K. 

As  o'er  the  city's  dark  and  bustling  street 
He  swiftly  made  his  task-appointed  way, 
Before  his  feet  upon  the  pavement  lay 
The  mute,  appealing  face  of  jonquil  sweet — 

No  more  its  father  Sun  at  morn  to  greet 
With  music  from  its  golden  trumpet  blown; 
Untimely  plucked  to  perish  all  alone, 
Nor  find  in  natal  soil  its  winding  sheet. 

With  tenderness  he  took  the  beauteous  thing 
As  yet  unstained  with  soilure  of  the  town, 
And  for  his  friend  he  bade  its  music  flow; 

And  now  again  in  glory  it  doth  ring, 

With  note  that  gives  it  more  than  mortal  crown, 
Of  friendship  blooming  in  the  long  ago. 


BEAUTY 


UNIVERSITY 

Or 


THE  MAN    TO  THE  ROSE  : 

0  Rose,  with  heart  of  flaming  gold, 
Wilt  tell  me  what  thou  hast  been  told, 
And  make  me  merry,  make  me  sad, 

With  what  thou  knowest  of  good  and  bad  ? 

1  see  thee  bending  lowly  now 

As  if  with  weight  of  prayerful  vow — 
So  lovely  that  I  faint  to  see 
The  beauty  glorified  in  thee; 

But  doubt  will  work  its  cruel  way 
Though  fiend  or  angel  bid  it  stay, 
And  now  despite  thy  joy  to  me, 
I  fain  would  dare  to  question  thee. 

THE  ROSE  TO  THE  MAN  : 

Dost  see  the  bee  that  gently  sips 
The  nectar  from  my  welcome  lips  ? 
He  takes  his  good  without  a  sigh, 
Nor  seems  to  seek  for  reason  why. 

My  lover  Sun  I  do  not  ask 
For  any  but  affection's  task, 

49 


Beauty      Content  to  have  him  shine  on  me, 

And  breed  the  gold  that  puzzles  thee. 

But  this  I  give  for  future  thought: 
When  thou  to  me  in  love  hast  brought 
Goodness  and  Truth,  thou  then  mayst  know 
Why  I  and  all  my  kind  do  blow. 

AFTER  THE  STORM 

The  storm  is  o'er;  the  angry  clouds 

All  sullenly  retire 
To  where  beneath  the  western  sun 

They  blaze  with  peaceful  fire; 

While  winds,   that  tore  like  demons  wild 

At  earth's  defenceless  breast, 
Have  sated  their  unwonted  rage, 

And  calmly  sink  to  rest. 

And  now  the  grass  looks  up  and  laughs, 

And  in  the  rose's  heart, 
Erst  bowed  with  grief,   I  see  a  joy 

That  heals  my  bosom's  smart. 


NIGHT 


As  oft  of  old,   I  watched  the  sun  leap  o'er 
The  golden  barriers  of  the  farthest  West, 
And  saw  the  stars  on  heaven's  deep  azure  breast 
In  splendor  blaze  as  never  seen  before; 

And  then  upon  mine  ear  began  to  pour, 
In  waves  innumerous  that  knew  no  rest, 
The  sharp,  sweet  notes  of  myriad  ones  that  blest 
My  inmost  soul  with  more  than  music's  lore: 

Unnoted  these  great  stars  glow  all  the  day, 
Unheard  these  tiny  insects  chirp  their  lay — 
Eclipsed  by  louder  sound,  by  brighter  light. 

Thus  many  a  sweet  and  patient  one  of  earth 

Shines  on,  sings  on,  unmarked  her  priceless  worth 
Till  she  has  glorified  Misfortune's  night. 


AT  DEL  MONTE,  CALIFORNIA 

JULY  24,  1898. 
TO    M.    E.    OF    CAMBRIDGE,   ENGLAND. 

We  passed  through  hoary,  dozing  Monterey, 
And  thrilled  to  see  the  gloried  spot  from  where 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  first  floated  on  the  air, 
To  give  this  matchless  land  a  newer  day; 

Then  through  the  piney  woods  we  took  our  way, 
On  either  hand  great  ferns,  the  tangled  hair 
Of  varicolored  vines,  and  blossoms  fair 
That  on  earth's  tawny  breast  all  starlike  lay. 

And  still  we  went  until  against  the  sky, 

Where  hung  the  gray-hued  banners  of  the  mist, 
The  weird,  gnarled   cypresses  dazed  sense  and  eye. 

The  shore  was  there  by  emerald  breakers  kissed; 
But  from  their  crested  bloom  and  sovran  pride 
I  turned  to  rose  of  England  by  my  side. 


ON  SOME  LANDSCAPES  PAINTED  BY 
WILLIAM   KEITH 

I 

Behold  this  canvas  where  the  artist  shows 
Our  Golden  Heritage:     The  sovran  Sun 
In  ripened  harvest  sees  his  triumph  won, 
And  golden  glories  deepen  to  repose, 

Save  where  the  laden  wain  an  accent  throws 
Of  voiceful  toil;  afar  the  mountains  swim; 
Great  trees  ensentinel  the  valley's  rim, 
And  childhood  gambols  where  the  streamlet  flows. 

O  children,  nature  here  has  given  her  best — 
So  rich,  no  poet  could  its  wealth  proclaim 
Though  dowered  with  words  of  ruby-hearted  flame; 

Knead  with  it  best  of  yours;  and  so  possessed, 

May  you,  faced  starward,  mount  to  summits  where 
Your  souls  shall  blossom  in  celestial  air. 


The 

Golden 

Heritage 

of  the 

Native 

Sons 


53 


II 


The        Who  doubts  the  earth  speaks  audibly  unto 

J°y  °J  The  heart  of  everyone  that  lists  to  hear, 

Earth 

Setting  its  beats  to  music  ?     If  to  thee  not  clear 

Her  ceaseless  note  that  rings  beneath  the  blue; 

Or  hast  thou  never  been  impelled  to  woo 

Her  beauty-glowing  forms,  nor  sought  her  ways, 
I  pray  thee  on  this  breathing  picture  gaze, 
That  Art  may  give  thee  all  thy  soul's  best  due. 

For  here  Earth  seems  with  radiant  joy  to  say: 
Behold  the  children  born  in  love  to  me — 
These  lush,   deep  grasses  where  the  flowerets  play 

At  hide  and  seek;  this  wide-embracing  tree, 
Where  birds  may  live  their  little,   tuneful  day, 
And  golden  harvests  that  are  yet  to  be. 


54 


Ill 


Full  many  a  time  fair  April  have  I  seen  April 

Enwrapped  in  cloud  of  every  lovely  hue, 

With  tears  that  fell  as  soft  as  morning  dew 

On  bloomy  orchard  and  on  fields  of  green; 
And  watched  her  smilingly,  her  tears  between, 

The  balmy  air  with  sun-born  jewels  strew, 

Till  life  and  joy  and  song  seemed  born  anew, 

To  glorify  with  promise  all  the  scene. 
These,  and  still  more,   O  Master,  hast  thou  caught 

Within  the  meshes  of  thy  subtile  art, 

That  April  there,   with   quickening  beauties  fraught, 
Might  stir  the  languid  waters  of  the  heart, 

And  make  forever  there  all  seasons  hers 

To  bid  fulfilment  crown  the  laboring  years. 


55 


IV 


The        Come  with  me  into  this  all-quiet  wood, 

Where  nought  of  hurry  or  of  noise  is  known, 
And  where  soft  airs  from  every  tree  are  blown, 
To  fill  the  heart  with  Rest's  untroubled  good. 

Here  we  may  lie  on  leaf-strown  couch,  and  brood, 
While  sweet  Imagination  binds  her  zone 
Around  our  vagrant  thoughts,   and  stirs  alone 
The  silence  of  this  lovely  solitude. 

Thou  precious  Art !  be  always  thus,  so  we 
May  compass  something  of  thy  priceless  lore : 
Thy  deeper  truths  shall  set  the  spirit  free, 

When  soulless  imitation  rules  no  more, 
And  where,  as  here,  thy  joyous  liberty 
Gives  birth  to  beauty  never  seen  before. 


To-day  the  soaring  mount  is  not  for  me  The 

Though  it  should  marshal  all  its  loveliest  mass,  Meadow 

Or  though  across  my  tempted  vision  pass 

Its  utmost  witchery  of  rock  and  tree  ; 
For  this  lush  meadow  holds  my  heart  in  fee, 

Where  clouds  lie  sleeping  in  its  pool's  clear  glass, 

And  where  in  comradeship  with  flower  and  grass 

No  other  friend  than  Reverie  shall  be. 
The  Mountain  trumpets  with  imperious  voice, 

And  great  Ambition  sits  enthroned  there 

With  spoils  that  blaze  in  fever-laden  air ; 
But  thou,   sweet  Meadow,   bidst  the  soul  rejoice 

In  love  of  lowly  and  familiar  things, 

And  lead'st  to  peace's  cooling,   crystal  springs. 


57 


VI 


The        With  moss-grown,  interlocking  arms  that  wear 

A  beauty  strangely  true,  these  gnarled  trees 
Wood 

Rule  o'er  this  weird  demesne,  where  mysteries 

Seem  lurking  nigh  in  many  an  eerie  lair. 

Silence  has  closed  the  lips  of  every  air, 

Till  hushful  Rest,   as  though  on  drowsy  seas, 
Floats  dreaming,   safe  from  all  disease 
Of  vain  ambition  or  of  mad  despair. 

To  some  such  spot  as  this  lone  Dante  might 
Have  brought  the  travail  of  his  towering  soul, 
When  exile's  grief  had  made  it  joy  to  die; 

And  here  Imagination,  love-bedight, 
Will  over  us  its  waves  enchanted  roll, 
As  near  this  naiad-haunted  pool  we  lie. 


VII 


The  mild,   alluring  Night  has  had  her  time,  Dawn 

For  now  the  Sun  on  his  resistless  way 
Beats  down  with  mighty  hand  her  vast  array, 
And  grandly  up  the  heavens  begins  to  climb. 

These  pulsing  clouds  announce  the  King  sublime ; 
Yet  not  with  banner  blazed  with  ruby  ray, 
But  one  whose  opal  light  of  lustrous  gray 
Wakes  Dawn's  sweet  bells  to  silver-sounding  chime. 

The  birds  have  scarce  aroused,  yet  man  is  here, 
To  lay  the  dewy  grass  beneath  his  knife 
And  bear  it  off  upon  the  waiting  wain. 

Thou  wondrous  New-born  Day;  what  hope,  what  fear, 
Lie  coiled  within  thy  breast ;  what  peace,  what  strife, 
And  what  ambitions  that  are  worse  than  vain ! 


59 


VIII 


At         The  Sun  that  raged  victorious  through  the  day, 

Like  conquering  monarch  scornful  of  defeat, 
lime 

Behind  the  hills  in  unrestrained  retreat 

With  pauseless  haste  now  speeds  upon  his  way. 

He  conquers  still :  these  clouds  proclaim  his  sway, 
That  lace  refulgently  the  lucent  blue, 
And  this  lone-wandering  moon  with  crescent  new 
Begins  to  glow  with  his  reflected  ray. 

The  grasses  tanned  by  summer's  breath,  the  trees, 
The  distant  crag  a  battlement  that  seems, 
Lie  in  the  arms  of  silence  and  of  rest. 

The  feverous  day  is  done ;  night's  galaxies 

Hold  yet  aloof;  in  this  mid- time  what  dreams 
May  hover  o'er  us  that  shall  make  us  blest ! 


60 


IX 


In  centre  of  the  canvas  see  this  pine  Tbe 

All  stark  in  death,  with  arms  in  vain  appeal 

Round 
For  what  it  nevermore  can  taste  or  feel 

Of  joys  of  earth  or  of  the  heavens  divine. 
Straight  as  in  life  it  stands,  still  bearing  sign 

Of  noble  majesty  and  dauntless  will ; 

While  ar  its  base  its  elder  brothers  spill 

Their  ashes  where  the  grasses  kiss  and  twine. 
A  glorious  redwood  centuries  have  blessed 

Uptowers,  while  with  bliss  of  life  possessed 

The  forest  sings  in  grand,  harmonious  tone. 
And  careless  men  pass  by — the  children  they 

Of  other  children  death  has  made  his  own, 

And  who  like  them  will  strive  and  pass  away. 


61 


The        The  year  is  on  the  edge  of  death  ;  for  see, 

These  dreary  branches  have  already  shed 
Year 

Such  myriad  leaves,  they  lie  in  mounds  of  dead 

At  foot  of  each  sad-hearted  parent  tree. 

Yet,  grim  and  stern  as  human  soul  might  be, 
The  scarred,  gray  sycamores  with  defiant  head 
Like  warriors  stand,  while  in  its  shrunken  bed 
The  languid  stream  flows  on  resignedly. 

Life  is  aweary  and  in  quiet  here 

Would  rest  awhile  her  fever-haunted  brain, 
As  dreams  she  of  the  dear,  departing  year ; 

And  Melancholy,  led  by  Memory's  train, 
With    velvet    step  will  gently  come  anear, 
To  dew  the  ground  with  sacramental  tear. 


62 


XI 


Behold :  dark,   lead-like  clouds  made  beautiful  The 

With  various  forms  of  fantasy,  where  light 

Quest 
Breaks  through  their  lowermost  edge  with  forceful 

might, 

As  if  in  challenge  of  their  right  to  rule ; 
Two  birds  that  fly  above  a  sleeping   pool 

Wherein  a  woman  peers  with  aching  sight, 

While  tree  and  grass,  in  mystic  garment  dight, 

Rest  in  the  silence  of  a  dreamful  lull. 
O  Woman  !  tell  me  what  thou  findest  here 

In  light  and  dark,  in  water,  bird  and  tree, 

In  all  these  grasses  and  their  mystery. 
O  Man  !  I  am  as  thou  :  for  could  I  peer 

Till  Time  made  peace  with  Death,  as  now  I  do, 

No  ray  would  show  me  the  unraveling  clew. 


XII 


Promise    The  shower  has  ceased,  yet  big  with  coming  rain 

The  light-fringed  clouds  loom  o'er  the  gladsome  hills, 
While  all  the  sunbeam-glinted  valley  thrills 
With  expectation  of  its  harvest  grain. 

This  fresh,  sweet  soil  but  just  upturned  is  fain 
Its  seed  to  press;  the  orchard  blossom  spills 
Its  fragrance  round ;  and  rising  incense  fills 
The  air  to  gratitude's  symphonic  strain. 

O  Earth,   dear,  bounteous  mother  of  us  all, 
From  thee  we  come,  and  at  the  last  we  fall 
Into  thy  softly  folding  arms  to  rest; 

And  as  the  Master  spreads  thy  beauties  here, 
We  seem  to  lie  serenely  on  thy  breast, 
With  Promise  gently  soothing  every  fear. 


In    Humble    Praise 


"  He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower." 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  I,  line  589. 

"  The  Poet  is  the  only  potentate  ; 

His  sceptre  reaches  o'er  remotest  zones  5 

His  thought  remembered  and  his  golden  tones 

Shall,  in  the  ears  of  nations  uncreate, 
Roll  on  for  ages  and  reverberate 
When  Kings  are  dust  beside  forgotten  thrones." 

Sestet  of  "  The  Sovereigns." — LLOYD  MIFFLIN. 

How  glow  they  evermore,  serenely  bright, 

These  star-eyed  ones — the  immortal  Sons  of  Light  ! 


TO    SHAKESPEARE 

JUNE,     1898. 

u  As  Carlyle  said,  we  are  all  subjects  of  King  Shakespeare.  As  long  as 
the  Americans  acknowledge  that  allegiance,  and  in  truth  none  could  be  more 
loyal,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  their  Englishry." 

Tbt  Sfectator,  April  30,  1898 

Why  add  superfluous,  piping  note  of  mine 

To  those  which  for  these  now  three  hundred  years 
Have  sung  thy  name,   that  in  transplendence  rears 
Itself  above  the  mightiest  of  thy  line? 

Why  should  I  not,   like  nun  before  a  shrine, 
Midst  adoration's  more  than  grateful  tears, 
Let  silence  speak,*  until  the  rapt  soul  hears 
The  distant  music  of  the  shores  divine? 

Because  in  this  tremendous  time  of  throes, 

When  all  the  lands  are  bowed  with  many  woes, 
We  joy  to  feel  old  England's  hand  in  ours ; 

And  so  to-day,  beyond  imagining, 

We  kneel,   as  thrilled  with  newly-wakened  powers, 
Before  thee — England's  and  our  Country's  King. 

*"  The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration." — WORDSWORTH. 


TO    MILTON 


Thou  star-crowned,  peerless  Milton,   thine  to  know 
The  moans  and  thunders  of  the  surging  seas, 
The  tinkling  laugh  of  rippling  rills,   the  trees' 
Soft  murmurs  multidudinous ;  and  so 

To  make  thy  numbers  with  their  music  flow 
In  such  deep  roll  of  cadenced  harmonies, 
Such  rythmic  trip  of  honeyed  melodies, 
That  round  the  world  forevermore  they  go. 

Thy  thoughts  were  high  as  heaven,  as  deep  as  hell, 
Strong  as  the  truth,  as  sweet  as  liberty, 
And  pure  as  thine  own  song  of  chastity. 

Thou  gavest  England,  when  she  needed  well 
Her  kingliest  and  her  best,  one  rarest  man 
Who  grandly  blended  Greek  with  Puritan. 


68 


TO    GOETHE 

God  built  thee  on  the  noblest  plan, 
Thou  universal,  matchless  man ! 
No  life  there  was  thou  couldst  not  feel, 
Nor  learning  thou  didst  not  acquire, 
And  these  thine  art  did  so  anneal 
They  glow  as  with  divinest  fire. 
Thy  serious  soul  surveyed  the  all, 
Contemning  not  what  seemed  the  small, 
Nor  lost  in  mazes  of  the  vast ; 
While  all  thy  years  thou  wisely  wast 
The  conqueror  of  thyself,   who  could 
Dispart  the  evil  from  the  good, 
And  calmly  sit  above  the  show 
Of  froth  and  fume  that  raged  below. 
Thou  sat'st  on  an  imperial  throne, 
Making  all  forms  of  life  thine  own — 
A  mighty,   intellectual  force, 
Appointing  man  his  proper  course. 
Thy  piercing  vision  saw  the  springs 
That  lie  within  the  heart  of  things, 


To         And  thy  enthralling  voice  shall  sound 
e      Its  notes  to  earth's  remotest  bound, 
To  lift  mankind  on  eagle's  wings 
To  where  sweet  Peace  in  triumph  sings. 


TO    MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

Clear-sighted  and  clear-thoughted,   thou  ; 
Dogmatic,  as  we  must  allow  ; 
But  temperate  alway  and  sincere, 
And  void  of  bias  as  of  fear. 

So  limpid  thy  prosaic  flow, 
We  could  with  thee  forever  go, 
To  catch  the  rich  and  rare  delight 
Of  seeing  clearness  joined  to  might. 

And  with  thy  verse  we  breathe  an  air 
The  very  Gods  would  wish  to  share, 
Where  passion  linked  with  beauty  glows 
Mid  restful  calms  of  great  repose. 


70 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


Here  was  a  Titan  : — one  whose  teeming  thought 
In  unfamiliar  channels,   broad  and  deep, 
Rolled  on  with  seeming  superhuman  sweep ; 
One  who,  by  learning  as  by  nature  taught, 

In  every  mine  of  human  passion  wrought 

With  such  exhaustless  power,   such  piercing  ken, 

Such  boundless  sympathy,   as  poet's  pen, 

Save  his  and  matchless  Shakespeare's,  never  caught, 

One  who  met  truth  with  never  flinching  gaze, 
As  on  he  walked  with  Muse  for  loving  guide ; 
Who  kept  his  road,   despite  of  blame  or  praise, 

In  fiercest  scorn  of  intellectual  pride ; 

And  who,   at  close  of  his  unrivalled  days, 

Sleeps,  where  'tis  meet  he  should,  by  Chaucer's  side. 


TO   BALZAC, 

ON   READING   HIS   MEMOIR   BY 
MISS   WORMELEY 

Until  I  knew  the  story  of  thy  years, 
It  did  not  seem  titanic  power  like  thine 
Could  have  been  found  in  merely  human  mine, 
Or  could  have  mingled  with  life's  hopes  and  fears ; 

For  thy  great  spirit  so  sublime  appears 
Among  the  kindred  fellows  of  thy  line, 
That  all  the  Nine  would  hail  thee  as  divine, 
And  Atropos  for  once  distrust  her  shears. 

'Tis  so  set  down,  yet  strange  I  feel  it  still, 
That  thou  wast  not  the  demi-god  I  deemed, 
But  anxious  toiler  for  thy  daily  bread  ; 

Thy  bosom  racked  with  many  a  torturing  ill ; 

And  who,  like  others,  when  thy  dreams  were  dreamed, 
Saw  Death's  dark  angel  cloud  thy  helpless  head. 


72 


TO  JOSE-MARIA   DE   HEREDIA 


'Twas  eagle- winged,  imperial  Pindar  who 
Sent  down  the  ages  on  the  tide  of  song 
The  thought  that  only  to  the  years  belong 
Those  deeds  that  win  immortal  poet's  due. 

Still  rise  his  crowned  athletes  to  the  view, 
On  his  unwearied  pinions  borne  along ; 
Still  shepherd's  pipe  and  lay  sound  sweet  and  strong 
As  when  Theocritus  attuned  them  true. 

And  so  through  thee  the  feats  of  heroes  great, 
The  hues  of  life  of  other  times  than  ours, 
With  such  refulgence  in  thy  sonnets  glow, 

That  in  the  splendor  of  their  new  estate, 

They  there,  with  deathless  Art's  supernal  powers, 
Shall  o'er  the  centuries  enchantments  throw. 


73 


TO    CARLYLE 

Thou  strangest  one  of  lettered  men, 
Whose  scathing  tongue  and  piercing  pen 
No  mercy  had  for  vain  pretense, 
Thou  mov'st  us  less  with  love  than  awe  ; 
Yet  no  one  could  before  thee  draw 
Without  enlargement  of  his  sense ; 
Without  sensations  such  as  ne'er 
Before  had  stirred  his  spirit's  air; 
Without  conviction,   too,   that  here 
Was  one  who  dared  to  be  sincere — 
A  stern,   unflinching  soul,   whose  blow 
Spared  neither  self,  nor  friend,  nor  foe. 
A  Prophet,  thou,  who  strov'st  to  teach 
The  deepest  truths  mankind  can  reach; 
Who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  try 
To  compromise  with  any  lie, 
Whate'er  might  threaten  or  beseech; 
And  whose  unwonted,   thunderous  speech 
Will  furnish  man  with  generous  store 
Till  Earth  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 


74 


ON   LOOKING   AT   WORDSWORTH'S 

ENGRAVED    PICTURE   IN   THE    CENTEN- 

ARY   EDITION   OF   HIS    POEMS 

Immortal  Wordsworth,  as  thy  pictured  face, 
With  all  its  placid  calm,  its  brow  serene, 
Its  mild,  benignant  majesty  of  mien, 
Moves  me  to-day  as  with  unwonted  grace, 

I  fain  would  yield,  if  only  for  a  space, 
My  soul  to  thee  completely,  and  so  clean 
My  thoughts  of  all  impurities  terrene, 
That  they  with  thine  might  dare  to  interlace. 

Thou  glorious  singer  of  soul-quickening  song ; 
Thou  nature's  child  to  being's  very  core  ; 
Simple  in  all  thy  ways,  yet  bold  and  strong; 

One  that  to  loftiest  mountain-top  could  soar 
With  sweeping  wing,   and  lightly  skim  along, 
No  less  at  ease,   the  valley's  daisied  floor. 


75 


TO    BYRON 


Byron,  volcanic  soul,  whose  crater's  fire 

Gushed  without  pause  in  heart-consuming  pain, 
The  world  still  owns  the  brilliance  of  thy  reign, 
And  wreathes  with  amaranth  that  throbbing  lyre, 

Where  passion  cries  in  unappeased  desire, 
Where  nature  pulsates  in  her  every  vein, 
Where  lofty  thought  evokes  its  loftiest  strain, 
And  scorn  of  cant  is  hot  with  scourging  ire. 

As  restless  thou  and  ample  as  the  sea 

That  sported  with  thee  as  familiar  friend; 
Thy  heart  was  open,   and  thy  spirit  free 

Beyond  all  human  power  to  break  or  bend  ; 
Thy  face  was  starward  set,  and  Liberty 
Wept  with  mankind  at  thy  untimely  end. 


TO   KEATS 

I 

Dear  Keats,   forgive  me  that  I  cannot  fly 
The  sweet  temptation  of  a  verse  to  thee, 
Whose  name,  deep  writ  in  brass,   shall  ever  be 
Still  deeper  written  as  the  years  go  by  ; 

But  looking  in  that  tender,   haunting  eye 
Which  Severn  drew  for  men  to  fondly   see, 
Thou  dost  to-day  so  radiant  seem  to  me, 
That  love  extorts  what  prudence  might  deny. 

'Tis  not  alone  the  glories  of  thy  song, 

Nor  thy  young  death  (at  which  mankind  still  weeps), 
That  binds  us  closely  to  thee,  but  thy  strong, 

Enduring  steadfastness  as  well,  which  keeps 
The  golden  glories  of  thy  precious  name 
Secure  within  our  hearts  a  vestal  flame. 


77 


II 


To         Thou  art,  indeed,   of  all  the  poet  race 

The  Muses'   most  immediate,  darling  child; 
They  kissed  thee  at  thy  birth  and  fondly  smiled, 
Foreseeing  what  thy  splendors  would  embrace  : 

Enchantments  man  would  never  cease  to  chase, 
And  catch  and  catch  again,  and  be  beguiled, 
Till  filled  with  rapture  he  should  be  so  isled 
Upon  such  sparkling  sea  of  fairy  space. 

Thou  clear-eyed  soul !     Thou  miracle  of  song  ! 
Greek  and  Elizabethan  met  in  thee  ; 
Thy  honeyed  lips  all  beauteous  things  did  throng, 

Attuned  to  music's  noblest  ecstasy, 
Making  thy  world  so  ravishingly  fair, 
That  all  the  years  shall  rest  delighted  there. 


TO   TENNYSON 


As  comes  to  all,  so  thou  hast  passed  away 
To  that  unfathomable,  dark  beyond, 
Before  whose  mysteries  thine  enchanting  wand 
Stirred  soulful  music  to  her  deepest  play  ; 

And  meet  it  was  that  when  Death  came,  to  lay 
His  icy  finger  on  that  dreamful  brain, 
Thy  soul  should  yearn  for  Shakespeare's  choric  strain 
To  fill  the  moments  of  thy  parting  day. 

Thou  deftest  master  of  poetic  art, 

Whose  verse  is  tinct  with  noble  dignity, 
And  makes  of  England  an  immortal  part ! 

Familiar  things  are  glorified  by  thee, 

While  dullest  blood  leaps  lightly  through  the  heart 
At  thy  immatchless  song  of  chivalry. 


79 


TENNYSON'S   GOOD   FORTUNE 


Of  all  the  poets  never  yet  was  one 

More  blest  by  fortune  than  was  Tennyson : 

For  half  a  century  his  pen  so  swayed 

The  realm  of  Poesy  that  all  obeyed, 

And  owned  he  gave  such  jeweled  song-words  birth 

As  could  not  well  be  matched  upon  the  earth. 

His  country  held  him  closely  to  her  breast 

As  one  in  whom  she  was  uniquely  blest, 

While  wife,  and  friends,  and  children,  all  were  his, 

And  spoils  of  wealth  and  noble  dignities. 

He  dreamed  his  dreams  in  quietude  apart, 

His  every  passion  centring  in  his  art, 

And  from  his  garden's  uninvaded  shade 

In  calm  contentment  all  the  world  surveyed, 

Keeping  his  powers  in  such  consummate  bloom 

They  never  seemed  to  wither  or  to  fade. 

And  when  had  come  the  fateful  hour  of  doom, 

Good  fortune  still  was  his  :   the  moonbeams  made 

Transfiguring  beauty  of  his  chamber's  gloom  ; 


80 


The  Master's  music  lingered  on  his  lips  Tennyson*  s 

The  latest  ere  his  spirit  passed  away,  Good 

And  sudden  sunlight  burst  through  cloud's  eclipse 
In  golden  glory  on  his  coffined  clay. 


TO    BURNS 

Thou  wast  of  truest  flesh  and  blood  : 
Thy  veins  ran  hot  with  passion's  flood  ; 
Thou  knewest  the  stars — and  miry  mud- 

But  all  sincerely  ; 
And  so  the  world,   as  well  it  should, 

Loves  thee  most  dearly. 

All  nature's  kin  was  kin  of  thine  ; 
The  earth  for  thee  was  all  divine  ; 
Nor  neededst  thou  from  Heaven  a  sign 

To  love  thy  brothers, 
Nor  wouldst  thou  measure  with  thy  line 

The  faults  of  others. 

'Tis  true  thy  satire's  lash  did  smite 
The  tender  spot  of  many  a  wight  ; 

81 


To          But  though  thy  blow  was  never  light, 
Burns  jt  meant  no  evil ; 

Indeed,  thou  didst  not  do  despite 
E'en  to  the  Devil. 

And  yet  thy  bosom  nursed  a  hate 
For  bigotry  that  would  not  bate  ; 
For  aught  that  bound  thy  fellow's  fate 

To  tyrant  burdens, 
Or  barred  him  from  his   just   estate 

Of  worthy  guerdons. 

The  lowliest  ones  that  breathe  the  air 
Could  catch  thy  thought  and  feel  thy  care, 
And  nestling  in  thy  heart  find  there 

Unselfish  giver, 
Till  winged  with  song  their  flight  shall  bear 

Still  on  forever. 

Thy  artless  strain,  how  rich  and  strong  ! 

How  full  of  all  the  joys  of  song  ! 

How  round  the  heart  its  children  throng 

To  leave  us  never  ! 
How  scornful  of  the  meanly  wrong, 

Yet  loving  ever  ! 

82 


Why  should  we  note  thy  fitful  years,  To 

Remorseful  pangs,  repentant  tears,  Burns 

Or  sigh  that  Fate  had  used  her  shears 

Untimely  on  thee  ? 
JTis  nought,   when  blessed  Love  appears 

Fore'er  to  crown  thee. 

TO   WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 

Landor,   thou  art,  in  truth,   the  one  unique  : 
A  Briton,  yet  a  Roman  and  a  Greek, 
And  still  no  less  Italian  ;  in  all  time 
Breathing  ambrosial  airs  of  every  clime  ; 
Who  all  the  spoils  of  all  the  ages  stored, 
And  drew  such  honey  from  thy  heaping  hoard, 
That  we  who  read  thee  pause  and  pause  again 
In  wonder  at  the  marvels  of  thy  pen. 
A  lettered  Titan,  thou,  so  greatly  great, 
Thou  sittest  throned  in  high  imperial  state, 
Like  some  immortal  God  that  keeps  his  place 
In  lonely  grandeur  of  unconquered  space, 
With  none  so  venturesome  as  dare  dispute 
His  rule  as  being  less  than  absolute. 

83 


TO    GOLDSMITH 

Dear  Goldsmith,  how  we  dwell  and  gloat 
Upon  thy  clear  and  liquid  note, 
And  with  thy  Vicar  talk  until 
Sweet  Resignation  leads  the  will. 
Thy  Traveller  still  pursues  his  way  ; 
Thy  Village  glows  in  its  decay 
More  lovely  now  than  when  it  first 
Upon  the  world  of  letters  burst ; 
Thy  Citizen  still  makes  us  hear ; 
Thy  Bee  still  buzzes  in  our  ear  ; 
Still  does  thy  conquering  Lady  show 
The  self-same  charms  of  long  ago ; 
While  Garrick  and  Sir  Joshua  stand 
Forever  painted  by  thy  hand. 

Who  could  have  thought,  of  all  the  set 
With  Johnson  at  the  Turk's-head  met, 
That  thou  shouldst  be  the  one  bright  star 
Whose  light  eclipse  should  never  bar ; 
That  thy  beloved  name  should  trail 
The  rest  behind  thee  like  a  tail  ? 


84 


TO    CHARLES   LAMB 


'Tis  three  score  years,  dear  Lamb,  since  thou 

Tasted  the  bitter  and  the  sweet  of  death, 

But  Love  thy  name  hath  nurtured  so,   that  now, 

As  ne'er  before,  it  greenly  flourished!. 

Thou  hadst  sincerity  without  a  flaw, 

And  lovedst  all  so  deeply  and  so  true, 

Thou  to  the  beggar  and  the  sweep  couldst  draw, 

And  see  their  hearts  their  rags  and  tatters  through. 

Thou  hadst  no  theories  for  wayward  man, 

Nor  sought  to  teach  some  lesson  to  thy  kind, 

But  livedst  patiently  thy  little  span, 

To  hopeless  ills  courageously  resigned. 

Thy  writings  leave  us  debtors  evermore, 

But  what  thou  wast  makes  still  the  richer  store. 


TO    SWINBURNE   ON   HIS   DRAMA 


If  highest  taste  some  Songs  of  thine  would  blot, 

Thy   Drama  raises  its  Olympian  head 

Above  our  wonder. — All  divinely  fed 

With  the  ambrosia  of  enkindling  thought 
And  soul-enthralling  music,  and  inwrought 

With  rarest  beads  of  color-laden  phrase, 

It  grandly  moves  in  such  heroic  ways 

As  scarce  one  modern,   saving  thee,  has  sought. 
Here  Scotland's  Mary  winds  through  her  career, 

Her  dainty  fingers  dipped  in  every  crime ; 

Here  Knox,  the  dauntless,  shakes  his  priestly  spear; 
Here  Bothwell  schemes,  the  Satan  of  his  time, 

And  here  antiquity  has  been  rewon 

Through  Atalanta's  chase  in  Calydon. 


86 


ON   LOOKING   INTO   THE   POEMS   OF 
WILLIAM   ERNEST   HENLEY 

What  sweep  of  wing  ! — what  moving  power  ! — 
What  strange,  inevitable  things 
That  menacingly  loom  and  lower, 
Bodeful  and  big  with  doom  ! 

No  puny  morbidness  here  broods, 
But  thoughts  and  words  of  giant  form 
That  stride  across  the  vastitudes 
In  color-glinted  gloom. 

He  holds  us  fast,  and  binds  the  will 
So  closely  round  our  inmost  thought, 
We  feel  an  unaccustomed  thrill 
To  ecstasy  akin. 

The  Hospital  its  story  sings 
Through  every  gamut  of  the  strain, 
And  London,  gloomed  and  glorious,  brings 
Her  terror  and  her  sin. 

All  nature  throbs  with  strange  desire, 
While  themes  deemed  barren  or  outworn 


Willian     Burst  from  his  music-haunted  lyre 

Ernest          In  blooms  of  kingliest  line. 
Henley 

Too  lurid,  lacking  sober  rest, 
Some  critic  cries — and  let  him  cry ; 
For  here  are  gems,   with  beauty  blest, 
From  Art's  eternal  mine. 


TO    RUSKIN 

WRITTEN  IN  "ARROWS  OK  THE  CHACE. 

Thou  noble  one,   thy  mind  and  heart 
We  reverence  more  the  more  we  scan, 

The  more  we  see  thy  love  for  Art 

Moves  hand  in  hand  with  love  for  Man. 

TO  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Thou  strange,  rare  one,   with  spirit  free, 
What  glorious  visions  didst  thou  see  ; 
How  teach  us  that  the  truest  Real 
Is  that  contained  in  the  Ideal. 


88 


CHRISTOPHER   SMART 

Smart  was  the  marvel  of  his  sapless  time  : 
To  scribble  reams  of  empty,  futile  rhyme, 
Then  in  a  phrensy  of  poetic  art — 
Crazed  in  his  brain  and  saddened  in  his  heart- 
To  pour  his  soul  into  one  mighty  song, 
Where  sparkling  jewels  do  so  thickly  throng, 
And   blaze  with  such  imaginative  light, 
That  every  year  shall  gladden  in  their  sight — 
A  deathless  song  with  nature's  ruin  bought ; 
No  wonder  his  own  century  knew  him  not ! 


TO   WILLIAM   WATSON 

Thou  dost  the  verses  of  thy  brethren  praise 
In  rarest  nicety  of  tuneful  phrase, 
But  who,   all  gladdened  with  Parnassian  wine, 
Will  sing  the  crystal  purity  of  thine? 


TO  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

AUGUST     12,     1891. 

Lowell,  thou  art  not  dead ;  thou  canst  not  die 
Till  Letters'   children  all  shall  cease  to  be  ; 
Till  dawns  the  day   (but  who  such  day  may  see?) 
When  Art's  innumerous  crystal  springs  run  dry ; 

When  Fancy  skims  no  more  the  meads  that  lie 
In  fadeless  bloom,  and  doomed  by  death's  decree 
Imagination's  mighty  majesty. 
Till  then,   O  glorious  soul,  thou  shalt  not  die. 

Thou  art  the  perfectest  of  all  the  flowers 

That  yet  have  blossomed  on  New  England's  soil — 
Blending  great  character  with  stintless  powers, 

And  making  every  literature  thy  spoil  ; 
While  all  thy  years  thy  jewel-crusted  pen 
Sent  thrilling  message  to  the  hearts  of  men. 


90 


AFTER  AN  EVENING  WITH   LONGFELLOW 


Could  I  but  mount  with  something  of  thine  ease, 
And  lightly  wing  the  empyreal  air 
The  muses  breathe,  I  would  not  now  despair 
To  rise  in  praise  of  thee  on  lines  Hke  these  ;— 

Now,  when  thy  dulcet,  fine  felicities 
All  freshly  lie  upon  my  soul,  and  wear 
A  bloom  so  richly,  beautifully  fair, 
They  mock  expression's  subtlest  alchemies. 

No  deliration  ever  mars  thy  strain, 

No  puling,     weak  complaining  nor  lament, 
Nor  hobbling  verse  that  roughly  drags  along; 

But  borne  on  waves  of  music,   sweetly  sane, 
Serenely  passioned,   suavely  eloquent, 
It  glows  with  witching  art  of  noble  song. 


ON   THE   LYRICS   OF  THOMAS   BAILEY 
ALDRICH 

Dainty  as  daintiest  thing 

In  man's  imagining 

Of  words  that  faultless  fit 

Their  fabric  exquisite ; 

With  beauty  such  as  rose 

In  happiest  moment  knows ; 

Attuned  to  melody's 

Supremest  ecstasies ; 

These  gemlike  lyrics  live  through  flawless  art, 
To  please  the  senses  and  to  stir  the  heart. 


POPE 

The  choicest  vintage  of  ambrosial  wine 

He  knew  not,  nor  the  harmonies  divine  ; 

But  who  has  matched,   or  who  shall  hope  to  match, 

The  wit  and  sparkle  of  his  rapier  line  ? 


92 


TO   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

Thou  wast  of  those  who  lived  with  noble  things 
From  very  birth,  until,  weighed  down  with  years, 
Death  sealed  thine  eyes,  whilst  all  thy  country  stood 
Uncovered  round  thy  venerated  clay. 
'Twas  thine  to  show  how  clean  the  Press  could  be, 
And  how  courageous  ;  thine  to  clearly  point 
The  paths  thy  countrymen  might  safely  tread, 
And  what  they  ought  in  honor  to  acclaim  ; 
And  thine,  in  combat  for  a  purer  tongue, 
To  bid  thine  own  example  lead  the  way 
jn  very  panoply  of  chastest  mail. 
The  gift  of  song  was  thine  ;  and  in  thy  great 
Miltonic  cadences  the  mighty  heart 
Of  nature  beats,   anon  with  joy  serene, 
Anon  with  melancholy  sad  as  leaves 
By  Autumn  kissed,  but  alway  with  a  hope 
That  sings  its  music  to  the  darkest  hour. 
With  thee  we  lose  ourselves  within  the  wood, 
And  make  the  tree  our  brother  ;  every  plant, 
That  spreads  its  modest  beauties  to  the  sun, 
Or  nestles  in  the  shade,  is  then  our  kin, 
93 


To        And  we  with  them  on  nature's  kindly  breast 

William     T       -i  1.1 

In  silence  hearken  to  the  voice  divine. 
Cullen 

Bryant     ^e  ^owers  °f  tne  field  were  thy  dear  friends, 
Who  spake  their  message  to  thee  as  to  one 
They  trusted  ;  and  in  swelling,  golden  note 
Of  sounding  rhythm  thou  gavest  it  to  us 
To  keep  enshrined  in  love's  own  treasury. 
All  things  that  walk  or  fly  could  set  thv  soul 
To  harmony,  as  did  the  waterfowl 
Which  caught  thine  eye,  when  in  the  vast 
Of  space's  unimaginable  waste 
Alone,  yet  confident,  it  took  its  way, 
And  where,  through  thee,  transfigured  and  sublime, 
It  beats  forever  an  unwearied  wing. 


94 


POE 

He  walked  beneath  the  raven's  wing 
A  wayward  child  in  lightless  gloom, 

And  there  his  trancing  songs  did  sing 
And  weave  his  haunting  tales  of  doom, 

He  drank  from  Beauty's  honey-cup, 
Pressed  to  his  eager  lips  by  Art, 

Until  her  nectar  swallowed  up 
The  very  substance  of  his  heart. 

Upon  her  lines  his  structures  grew, 
In  form  most  cunningly  designed, 

While  demons  that  he  nurtured  slew 
The  peace  and  sweetness  of  his  mind. 

With  hopeless  sighs  and  bitter  tears 
He  filkd  his  sad,  remorseful  hours, 

Yet  reared  the  while,  for  all  the  years, 
His  beauty-crowned,  enchanted  towers* 


95 


TO   LLOYD    MIFFLIN 


Borne  on  thy  sonnet-feathered  wings  I  fly 
To  strange,  vast  realms  immeasurable  where 
Imagination  breeds  her  children  fair, 
That  wake,  with  singing,  Thought's  remotest  sky. 

Then  down  to  earth  thou  bring 'st  me,  and  I  lie 
So  sweetly  close  to  every  human  care, 
And  breathe  the  joys  of  such  ambrosial  air, 
That  Love's  seraphic  host  seems  hovering  nigh. 

Where'er  thou  bearest  me  all  beauties  bide 

With  Art  and  Passion  linked,  while  music  rolls 
In  cadenced  billows  on  the  spirit's  shore. 

O   Poet  by  the  Susquehanna's  side, 

Take  thou  this  heart-wrought  song  and  all  my  soul's 
Most  faithful  homage  till  my  days  are  o'er. 


WRITTEN   IN   LLOYD    MIFFLIN'S 
"THE    SLOPES    OF   HELICON'' 

APRIL     14,     1898. 

Thou  alien  one,  O  War,  whose  notes  prelude 
Full  many  a  grievous  woe  to  haughty  Spain, 
Nor  less,  mayhap,  to  us,  let  not  their  bane 
On  this  glad  day  upon  mine  ear  obtrude ; 

And  thou  familiar  one,   O  Law,   endued 

With  that  which  should  make  battle's  havoc  vain, 
Must  now  release  me  from  thy  stress  and  strain, 
And  leave  my  spirit  to  its  solitude. 

For  now  have  come  to  me  the  lyric  songs 

Of  him  whose  numbers  with  impassioned  might 
In  beauty  flow  mellifluously  on  ; 

And  hence  this  golden  day  to  him  belongs, 
On  which  he  shall,  with  soul-illuming  light, 
Lead  me  along  the  Slopes  of  Helicon. 


97 


TO   WHITTIER 

I 

Some  verse  there  is  death  cannot  touch  although 
It  may  not  nest  upon  the  loftiest  height, 
To  spread  its  pinions  in  untiring  flight 
Where  constellations  in  resplendence  glow; 

Nor  yet  by  Fancy  fondly  fellowed  know 
Her  fairy  realms  of  exquisite  delight ; 
Nor  with  Imagination's  stopless  might 
Range  the  vast  regions  of  our  bliss  and  woe ; — 

For  it  hath  cradled  in  the  human  breast 

Feelings  and  thoughts  with  which  we  would  not  part ; 
And  hath  in  loving,   saving  strength  possessed 

The  power  to  move  the  universal  heart, 
And  so  will  be  by  all  the  muses  blest 
As  long  as  joys  shall  sing,  or  tears  shall  start. 


II 


Such  verse,   O  Whittier,  thy  muse  employs  :  To 

For  thou  dost  sing  in  unaffected  lay 
Of  maidens  fair,   of  childhood's  glorious  day, 
Of  natural  things  unmixed  with  base  alloys ; 

Dost  mint  the  gold  which  lies  in  homely  joys, 
And  gently  mov'st  in  such  consummate  way 
The  human  heartstrings  to  harmonious  play, 
That  restful  music  drowns  the  world's  mad  noise. 

New  England  lives  in  thy  delightful  line  : 

There  do  her  household  hearths  our  love  constrain ; 
There  do  her  tales  with  newer  beauty  shine, 

Her  fields,  her  woods,  her  skies,   her  stormy  main; 
While  over  all  the  Power  we  feel  divine 
Upholds  eternal,  universal  reign. 


99 


TO  A  SOILED  AND  BROKEN  VOLUME  OF 
BAYARD  TAYLOR'S  POEMS 

Come,  lovely  waif,  to  my  embrace  ; 
With  gentlest  touch  I  shall  erase 
All  soilure  from  thy  pretty  face, 
Shall  tear  away  the  faded  dress 
That  mars  thy  pristine  loveliness, 
And  bid  the  binder  clothe  anew 
Thy  beauteous  form,   and  there  bestrew, 
With  hand  by  loving  taste  controlled, 
His  daintiest  flowers  of  gleaming  gold. 
Then  shall  I  gladly  house  thee  where 
The  best  of  all  thy  kinsmen  fare, 
And  who  will    give  thee  welcome  room 
Within  the  precints  of  their  home, 
And  where  thine  author  e'en  would  say 
Thou  hadst  at  last  not  gone  astray. 
There  shalt  thou  have  such  tender  care 
The  bitter  past  will  be  forgot ; 
And  oft  to  thee  shall  I  repair, 
To  thrill  beneath  thy  glowing  thought ; 
To  follow  thee  at  leisure  times 
100 


For  art-grown  pearls  in  distant  climes  ; 
To  have  the  sluggish  feelings  stirred 
By  many  a  music-singing  word, 
And  mount  with  thee  on  lyric  wings 
Above  the  touch  of  sordid  things. 
Ah,  then  how  happy  shall  I  be, 
At  thought  of  having  rescued  thee  ! 


To  a 

Soiled  and 
Broken 

Volume  of 

Bayard 

Taylor's 

Poems 


TO   FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 

Thy  verse,  dear  Halleck,  hath  such  flowing  ease, 
And  sparkles  with  such  rare  felicities  ; 
So  much  of  it  is  nourished  with  a  blood 
That  flows  from  sources  of  perennial  good  ; 
We  cannot  still  but  wonder  more  and  more 
Thou  shouldst  have  doled  us  such  a  stinted  store ; 
But  every  soul  forgives  thee  when  it  turns 
To  read,  for  hundredth  time,  thy  song  to  Burns. 


101 


TO   WALT   WHITMAN 


Thou  roughest-hewn  of  all  the  poet  kind  ! — 

Not  thine  to  tinkle  rhyme's  melodious  bell, 

Nor  set  to  music  of  harmonious  swell 

The  thoughts  that  surged  within  thy  shoreless  mind  ; 
Not  these  could  Art  to  lightest  durance  bind, 

Nor  sensuous  Beauty  with  her  deepest  spell 

Entice  them  in  her  fair  demesne  to  dwell ; 

But  formless,  ruleless  they,   as  unconfined. 
Yet,  giant  soul,  thy  loud-resounding  lyre, 

Whose  tones  the  wondering  world  still  leans  to  hear, 

Thrills  every  spirit  that  would  dare  to  be 
Inflamed  with  that  unique,  immortal  fire, 

That  made  thee  what  thou  wast — the  grandest  seer 

And  noblest   poet  of  Democracy. 


102 


TO   GEORGE   FREDERICK   WATTS,    R.    A. 

ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY 
FEBRUARY    23,   1897. 

No  worthier,  nobler  name,  great  Watts,   than  thine 
Has  Art  emblazoned  on  her  golden  scroll ; 
Nor  has  old  England  gendered  truer  soul 
Of  all  the  wonders  of  her  wondrous  line  : 

For  thou  hast  borne  with  marvellous  strength  the  sign 
Of  Beauty's  chastity  to  highest  goal, 
Unheeding  largess  of  applause  or  dole, 
Nor  taking  thought  in  worldly  ways  to  shine. 

And  all  the  while  Imagination's  hand 

Has  led  thce  to  the  unclouded  summits,   where 
For  souls  like  thine  all  high  ideals  await — 

Those  radiant  ones  that  spurn  each  base  demand 
Of  fad  or  falseness,   and  in  Truth's  pure  air 
Teach  what  it  means  to  be  supremely  great. 


103 


In   Tribute 


"  I  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought, 
For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved ; 
My  words  are  only  words,   and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought." 

In   Memoriam. 

Trifles  that  glittered  in  affection's  sun, 

Then  passed  like  morning  dew, 
And  which  through  eloquence  of  love  have  won 

The  right  to  live  anew. 


A.    S.    T. 

So  deep  her  love,   so  warm  her  heart,  her  touch 
So  soft  and  gentle,  and  her  voice  so  sweet, 
That  when  she  soothes  my  pain,   then  overmuch 
My  life  seems  blest ;  and  thus  serene,   complete, 
By  means  of  her,   my  soul  can  never  meet 
One  danger  that  shall  make  it  cower  or  retreat. 

TO  PROFESSOR  JACOB  COOPER,  D.  D., 
D.  C.  L.,  OF  RUTGERS  COLLEGE,  NEW 
JERSEY 

I  have  not  seen  the  nobleness  and  grace 
That  surely  sit  in  glory  on  thy  face, 
For  never  has  it  been  my  joy  to  know 
Thy  spoken  word  in  golden,   friendly  flow  ; 
But  many  a  token  have  I  had  from  thee 
So  rarely  sweet  and  beautiful  to  see, 
And  have  so  gazed  upon  thy  distant  light, 
That  in  thy  modesty's  supreme  despite 
I  give  thee  homage  in  this  verse  of  mine, 
And  sigh  to  think  I  lack  the  Muse's  might 
To  make  it  thrill  with   all  that  is  divine. 


107 


TO   DR.    LEVI    COOPER   LANE    ON   THE 
OPENING   OF   LANE   HOSPITAL 

JANUARY  i,   1895. 
"  Finis   Coronat   Opus." 


Unconquerable  soul,  as  fortunate 

As  good  and  true,  and  worthy  all  the  store 

That  binds  our  hearts  to  thine  still  more  and  more, 

We  bring  thee  loving  homage  on  this  great, 

Auspicious  day,  yet  vainly  strive  to  mate 
Our  feelings  with  the  best  of  every  lore, 
That  bodied  thus  they  might  superbly  soar 
On  golden,   winged  words  to  Heaven's  own  gate. 

Here  stands  thy  work,  and  shall  forever  stand 
As  long  as  man  may  know  disease  or  pain, 
In  flawless  roundness  of  completion  planned ; — 

What  nobler  monument  of  selfless  gain  ! 

In  all  that's  precious,   how  supremely  grand 
This  wise  creation  of  thy  heart  and  brain  ! 


108 


II 


Long  years  ago  thy  prescient  soul  made  bold  To 

To  point  to  rich  fruition  such  as  this, 

Cooper 
And  now  thou  drainest  such  a  cup  of  bliss  r 

As  even  thyself  couldst  scarce  have  hoped  to  hold  ; 
But  every  purpose  of  thy  hard-earned  gold 

Has  been  accomplished  ;  nought  has  gone  amiss, 

And  all  thy  plans  harmoniously  kiss 

Here  where  thy  name  shall  evermore  be  told. 
The  starry  heights  have  been  sublimely  won, 

And  we  who  watched  thee  on  thy  toilsome  way 

Are  thrilled  to  see  the  splendor  of  thy  sun 
Undimmed  as  yet  by  age,   and  fervent  pray 

That  as  the  years  their  future  courses  run, 

Their  peace  shall  bless  thee  to  thy  latest  day. 


109 


GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS 


Death  holds  our  Curtis  now; — no  more  that  pen 
From  which  fell  crystal  drops  of  honeydew ; 
No  more  that  spoken  word,  so  strong  and  true, 
For  sweet  refreshment  of  the  souls  of  men. 

Nor  tongue,  nor  pen,  will  ever  speak  again 

This  side  of  Heaven ;  but  Fame  will  fondly  strew 
His  grave  with  amaranth,  and  Love  renew 
Her  passion  there  to  utmost  of  her  ken ; 

For  he  was  more  than  Letters'  honored  child, 
And  more  than  lover  of  the  artist  race : 
His  country  held  him  as  her  noble  son 

Who  strove  to  make  her  parties  undefiled, 
To  lift  their  feet  from  out  the  filth  of  place, 
And  set  them  where  real  victories  might  be  won. 


no 


DAVID    STARR  JORDAN, 

PRESIDENT  OF  LELAND  STANFORD  JUNIOR 
UNIVERSITY 

Six  feet  and  more  his  massive  figure  stands, 
With  countenance  sedate,   yet  frankly  free, 
And  with  calm  mien  so  masterful  that  we 
Could  fear  no  cause  committed  to  his  hands. 

As  one  beloved  by  Science  he  commands 
Her  largesses,   and  bids  them  bodied    be 
In  closely-woven  speech  wherein  we  see 
Inweaved  all  great  ideals*   bright  golden  strands. 

Sincere,   courageous,   never  less  than  bold 
In  scorn  of  weakness  and  of  compromise, 
He  keeps  straight  on  to  where  his  duty  lies ; 

In  body,   mind  and  soul  so  big  of  mould, 

That  when  the  most  of  him  is  thought  or  told, 
He  seems  beyond  us  still  to  higher  rise. 


1 1 


TO   WILLIAM   KEITH 


O  Master,  if  such  halting  verse  as  mine 
Can  for  a  moment  stay  thy  magic  brush, 
Then  let,  mid  thankfulness'  religious  hush, 
My  grateful  tribute  fall  on  ear  of  thine. 

Our  friendship's  years  have  stretched  a  hallowed  line 
Since  first  I  knew  the  children  of  thy  Art, 
And  now,  with  wider  thought  and  warmer  heart, 
I  come  my  laurel  round  thy  name  to  twine. 

Would  that  my  rhyme  could  run  as  does  this  stream 
Which  on  thy  canvas  breaks  in  rapturous  song 
Where  Spring,   triumphant,  bursts  from  every  clod ! 

Then  would  be  realized  my  vain,  fond  dream  : 
To  sing  one  bar  that  might  amidst  the  throng 
Of  countless  voices  rise  from  earth  to  God. 


112 


ON  READING  THE  POSTHUMOUSLY  PUB 
LISHED  VOLUME  OF  TIMOTHY  H. 
REARDEN 

'Tis  strange  to  think  I  should  have  held   his  hand, 
Full  many  a  time  all  warmly  clasped  in  mine, — 
And  ne'er  was  conscious  that  he  bore  the  sign 
Of  those  who  conquer  by  divine  command. 

And  now  he's  gone,  how  well  we  understand  j 
How  gloat  upon  the  once  unnoted  line  ; 
How  newly  bright  his  gems  of  beauty  shine, 
As  born  to  live  in  Art's  enchanted  land. 

The  Muses  loved  him,  but  the  cruel  Fates 
Held  his  high  hopes  in  many  a  sad  eclipse, 
And  led  his  feet  where  guerdon  could  not  be ; 

But  at  the  last,  Heaven  opened  wide  its  gates 
To  light  him,  and  with  song  upon  his  lips 
He  hailed  the  glory  of  the  eternal  sea.* 

*  His    poem,  "  The  Sea!    The  Sea!'"    was  written  a  short 
time  before  bis  deatb. 


TO    MY   FRIEND    W.  H.  T. 


Friend  of  my  struggling  years,  when  friend  was  none, 
Save  only  thou,  to  set  my  wavering  feet 
On  paths  where  effort  and  reward  should  meet ; 
Whose  blood  and  mine  have  mingled  into  one 

Through  fruitful  marriage  ;  —  ere  thy  westering  sun 
Shall  sink  one  second  lower,  let  my  verse 
Thy  merit  and  my  gratitude  rehearse, 
And  so  live  there  when  both  our  days  are  done : 

In  counsel  wise,  with  scorn  of  useless  speech, 
Tenacious  to  the  last,  yet  just  to  each, 
And  modest  ever,  this,  and  more,  thou  art ; 

While  never  man  was  born  who  starred  his  way 
With  more  unselfish  deeds  from  day  to  day, 
Or  nursed  his  feelings  in  a  tenderer  heart. 


114 


HENRY   GEORGE 


He,  like  some  prophet  in  the  days  of  old, 
Took  every  weary  heart  into  his  own, 
And  sought  assuagement  of  the  dreadful  moan 
Forever  rising  and  by  nought  controlled. 

Against  the  giant  wrongs  whose  coils  enfold 

The  myriad  souls  that  starve,  and  freeze,  and  groan, 
His  flaming  message  flew  as  if  'twere  blown 
By  all  the  woes  that  earth  has  ever  told. 

His  love  was  man's  until  his  latest  day, 

When,  battling  'gainst  corruption's  foul  array, 
He  fell,  to  flood  with  glory  all  the  scene. 

Alas !  Alas  !  the  world  has  lost  him  now ; 
But  men  will  look  to  it  that  on   his  brow 
The  laurel  keeps  imperishably  green. 


TO   ANDREE'S   CARRIER   PIGEON 

IN  THE  ARCTIC  OCEAN,  8o°44/  NORTH,  20°  20'  EAST 
JULY    16,   1897. 

No  voice  but  thine,   O  ill-requited  bird, 
Has  come  to  tell  of  mighty-souled  Andree, 
Since  that  uniquely  memorable  day 
His  polar  voyaging  the  whole  world  stirred ; 

And  as  on  sheltering  mast — thy  flight  deterred 
By  cold  and  weariness — thy  body  lay, 
Wrapped  in  the  dreams  of  home-cote  far  away, 
Man  gave  thee  death  for  thy  recorded  word. 

Thy  master  sailed  into  the  depths  unknown 
Along  the  paths  no  human  wing  had  beat, 
And  fell  with  frozen  plume,  no  more  to  rise  ; 

And  twinned  with  thee  ye  both,   as  glory's  own, 
Have  added,  with  transplendency  complete, 
New  Borealis  to  the  Arctic  skies. 


116 


TO    C.    S.    K. 

And  so  you're  back  from  London  town, 
From  Paris  and  from  Florence  ; 

You've  seen  Italia' s  lovely  plains, 
And  Alpine  peaks  and  torrents ; 

You've  gloated  over  gems  of  art 

In  many  an  olden  city ; 
The  Louvre  and  Luxembourg  have  walked, 

Uffizi  and  the  Pitti ; 

You've  racked  your  brain  to  find  what's  in 

Libraries  and  museums, 
And  various  music  heard,   from  pipe 

Of  shepherd  to   Te  Deums. 

You've  breathed  the  classic  air  of  Greece 

That  all  mankind  inspires, 
And  thrilled   before  the  Parthenon's 

Unquenched,  immortal  fires, 

And  watched  the  witching  moonlight  kiss 

Each  rent  and  mutilation, 
Till  all  her  columns  seemed  to  rise 

In  glad  rejuvenation, 

I  17 


To        And  once  again  her  sculptured  host 

C    S    K 

In  joyousness  possessed  her, 

While  great  Athene  shone  as  when 
The  art  of  Phidias  blessed  her. 

You've  trod  the  streets  which  Plato  trod,- 
In  silent,   dreaming  wonder, 

And  climbed  Hymettus  where  the  bees 
The  nectared  blooms  still  plunder; 

Thermopylae  has  felt  your  step, 
And  Marathon  and  Plataea, 

Where  Asia's  fall  made  sure  for  us 
The  priceless  Greek  idea  ; 

And  Salamis  was  yours  to  see, 
With  all  its  memories  glowing : — 

The  Persian  monarch  throned  in  state, 
To  watch  the  battle's  flowing ; 

Themistocles'  heroic  form 
Above  his  fellows  towering, 

The  wives  and  children  on  the  height 
In  fear  and  wailing  cowering  ; 


118 


OF  THF. 

UNIV€RS!TY 


The  Asian  host  on  Attic's  shore 

The  victory  bespeaking  ; 
The  writhing  ships,   the  valorous  deeds, 

The  sea  with  slaughter  reeking, 

Until  the  evening  sun  looked  down 
On  Persia  wrecked  and  flying, 

While  Greece  in  glory  flamed  along 
Ncw-splendored  and  undying. 

Over  the  hills  of  mighty  Rome 

And  through  her  ways  you've  wandered, 
And  o'er  her  everlasting  mark 

On  history's  page  have  pondered  ; 

You've  mused  where  Caracalla's  baths 
Upon  the  ground  lie  sprawling, 

Until  Rome's  grandeur  and  her  shame 
From  out  the  past  were  calling  ; 

You've  stood  where  Titus  sat,  when  he 

The  Colosseum's  wonder 
Opened  with  seas  of  blood  that  ran 

Below  applause's  thunder  ; 


To 
C.  S.  K. 


119 


To         And  where  the  Forum's  columns  stand 

C   S    K 

In  splendid  ruination, 

You've  conjured  up  the  populace, 
The  Tribune  and  oration ; 

You've  bended  o'er  the  fateful  place 
Which  Brutus  made  appalling, 

Until  in  fancy  you  could  see 
The  towering  Julius  falling ; 

You've  roamed  the  Vatican  where  Art 

Her  vigil  still  is  keeping, 
And  knelt  upon  the  grave  where  Keats 

Immortally  is  sleeping  ; 

You've  read  your  Virgil  mid  the  scenes 
Where  sang  the  master  classic, 

And  viewed  the  farm  where  Horace  versed 
'Tween  sips  of  fragrant  Massic  ; 

You've  followed  Dante's  dauntless  steps 

In  exile  from  his  city, 
And  Tasso's  prison  walls  have  felt 

The  murmur  of  your  pity. 


120 


You've  gazed  on  Venice,   sailed  upon  To 

C    S    K 

Her  marvellous  streets  aquatic, 

And  lived  the  matchless  scene  when  she 
Wedded  the  Adriatic ; 

And  thought  of  all  that  far-gone  time, 

When  power  was  hers  and  glory, 
Till  every  age  entranced  has  heard 

Recital  of  her  story  ; 

When  Dandolo,   the  sightless  Doge, 

Joined  arms  with  the  crusader, 
And  far  and  near  full  many  a  land 

Submissively  obeyed  her  ; 

When  Tintoretto's  brush  was  tinct 

With  great  imagination, 
And  Titian's  and  Giorgione's  glowed 

With  gorgeous  coloration  ; 

And  when  Manuzio  raised  his  press, 

And  with  his  slanting  letters 
Set  free  the  Muses'   royal  line 

From  manuscriptal  fetters. 


121 


To         Language  you've  mastered;  bent  your  thought 

/"*    9     K 

On  problems  of  the  nations, 

And  pondered  o'er  the  mystic  past, 
With  all  its  vast  relations; 

And  more,   and  more;  but  why  recount 
When  you  are  here  before  us, 

To  let  narration's  gentle  waves 
Delightfully  roll  o'er  us  ? 


YSAYE 

All  leonine  in  look  he  stands, 

Serious,  confident,  serene, 
Whilst  'neath  his  supple,  willowy  hands 

His  myriad-voiced  violin 
Speaks  to  the  soul,  until  the  air 
Seems  tremulous  with  praise  and  prayer. 


122 


TO   BONZIG 

(SEE    PARTS    II    AND    IV    OF    "THE    MARTIAN  "    BY 
GEORGE    DU    MAURIER*') 

Thou  honest  soul,  amidst  the  dry  routine 

Where  school-boys  mocked  thy  mild  severity, 
How  thou  didst  feed  thy  hunger  for  the  Sea 
By  painting  her  thine  eyes  had  never  seen. 

And  when  thy  years  were  turning  from  their  green, 
Ecstatic  thoughts  of  her  still  came  to   thee, 
As  in  thy  garret  on  thy  canvas  she 
Glowed  as  with  jewels  from  her  great  demesne. 

O  rapturous  day  that  makes  thy  heart  run  o'er  ! 
The  Baron  calls  thee  to  the  ocean-shore, 
And  says  thou  shalt  be  tutor  to  his  son   ... 

Then  as  thou  criest, — bliss  in  every  breath, — 
"The  Sea !  the  Sea  !  my  best  beloved  one  !  " 
Thou  plungest  in  her  waves  .   .   .   and  findest  death. 


123 


PERPETUA 


My  father,  plead  no  more; — wouldst  have  me  wed 
Remorse  in  life,   and  then  in  flames  to  lie, 
When  from  the  blood  of  Caesar's  circus  I 
Can  leap  to  Heaven  to  be  chapleted  ? 

Has  not  our  holy  Saint  Ignatius  said 

God's  wheat  we  are,  that,  for  his  purpose  high 
And  in  his  boundless  love,  should  be  ground  by 
The  teeth  of  wild  beasts  into  Christ's  pure  bread  ? 

Then  welcome  the  arena's  glorious  ruth ; 
I  long  to  feel  the  lion's  rending  tooth 
Till  all  my  body  reeks  with  horrors  fell. 

And  yet,   dear  father,   ere  from  thee  I  go, 
It  touches  me  to  think  of  that  great  woe 
Which  will  be  thine  eternally  in  Hell. 


124 


ARRIA 


"I  hear — and  shake  not — that  thou  art  decreed 
By  thine  own  hand  to  miserably  die, 
Now  when  thy  fortunes  blossom  and  the  eye 
Of  fate  beams  bright  as  with  prophetic  meed  ; 

And  why  shak'st  thou  in  this  thy  spirit's  need 
When  Death  and  Cassar  stand  relentless  by  ? 
Arouse  thy  soul  till  thy  defiant  cry 
Proclaims  once  more  our  matchless  Roman  breed.  "- 

"  O  wife,  to  close  this  day  my  book  of  years 
Is  unimagined  pain  ;  this  waiting  steel 
The  horror's  sum  of  horrors  unto  me." — 

"  Give  me  the  blade,  that  so  thy  griefs  and  fears 
May  drown  in  mine  own  blood.       I  strike  .   .   . 

and  feel 

No  hurt,  my  Paetus  .   .   .   now  the  point's  for 
thee." 


125 


IN   THE   CONVENT   GARDEN 

TO    EDWIN    STEVENS    IN     APPRECIATION    OF     HIS     RENDERING 
OF    THE    CHARACTER    OF    CYRANO    DE    BERGERAC 

Steeped  in  autumnal  dyes  the  mournful  leaves 
With  sad  insistence  flutter  to  the  ground, 
And  blend  their  voices  with  the  vespers'    sound, 
To  soothe  the  heart  that  still  for    Christian  grieves. 

Beneath  the  sighing  trees  her  bosom  heaves ; 

For  memories  throng,  while  he  that  in  her  bound 
Brings  worldly  word  comes  not — he  whom, 

thorn-crowned, 
She  still,  as  ever,  blindly  misconceives. 

At  last  all  worn  he  comes  with  feeble  breath, 
In  whose  sweet  tenderness  preluding  death 
Throbs  strangely  new  a  note  from  love's  past  years : 

It  tells  that  he,  not  Christian,  won  her  kiss, 

That  his,  not  Christian's,  pen  had  fed  her  bliss, 
And  that  Remorse  shall  fill  her  cup  with  tears. 


126 


HARRO 

SCHLESW1G-HOLSTEIN  COAST, 
FEBRUARY,   1895. 

The  waves  leapt  fierce  and  high 
Beneath  cloud-blackened  sky, 
And  raging  winds  tore  by 

The  ship  that  staggered  on, 
While  blinding  sleet  fell  there, 
From  out  the  freezing  air, 
Upon  her  bosom  where 

Hope  seemed  forever  gone. 

And  now  the  seas  dash  o'er 
Her  deck's  defenseless  floor, 
And  more  and  ever  more 

She  gasps  and  pants  for  breath  ; 
While,  worn  with  weary  strain, 
Her  desperate  men  attain 
Her  rigging,   there  to  gain 

What  seems  but  slower  death. 

But  hope  now  thrills  their  breast, 
For  o'er  the  billows'   crest 

127 


Harro  The  life-boat  speeds,   attest 

Of  selfless  souls  that  dare  ; 
And  every  man  finds  place 
Within  her  crowded  space 
Save  one,   whose  helpless  case 

Seems  all   beyond  their  care. 

Then  Harro  ran  to  meet 
The  boat  with  flying  feet, 
And  cried,   with  joy  complete, 

"All?  All?  Ye  have  saved  all  ? "- 
"All,   Captain,   all  but  one, 
And  he  so  high  had  run 
Upon  the  mast,   that  none 

Was  equal  to  the  call." 

At  this  he  smote  his  head, 
And  with  sad  sternness  said, 
"'Tis  woe  that  those  I've  led 

Should  fail  in  duty's  hest  !   .   .    . 
Now  let  but  four  agree 
To  try  yon  wreck  with  me, 
And  that  lone  wretch  shall  be 

With  life  divinely  blest." 

128 


««  Comrade,  in  vain  thy  plea ,  Harra 

Too  heavy  runs  the  sea.*' 
"Then  I  alone,"   said  he, 

Will  venture  on  the  deed.*' 
"  Not  so,"  upstarted  four, 
"  If  thou  but  lead,  once  more 
We'll  through  these  billows  bore, 

Despite  all  coward  rede." 

"  Harro,  my  only  boy, 
Do  not  all  hope  and  joy 
Within  my  breast  destroy," 

His  tearful  mother  cried ; 
"The  sea  runs  higher  still, 
And  great  as  is  thy  skill, 
And  stout  thy  strength  and  will, 

It  cannot  be  defied. 

Our  duty's  charge  by  none 
More  nobly  has  been  done ; 
And  as  for  that  poor  one 

So  lonely  left,  he's  gone ; 
'Tis  sure  we  cannot  know 
That  he  still  lives,   and  so 

129 


Harro  The  truest  might  forego 

What  thy  fond  wish  is  on. 

"Thou'rt  all  that's  left  to  me: 
Thy  brother  Uwe,   he 
Went  from  me,   and  the  sea 

Most  like  has  been  his  grave ; 
And  thy  dear  sire  doth  sleep 
Entombed  within  the  deep, 
Where  hope  had  bade  him  reap 
The  glory  of  the  brave. 

'« I  cannot  let  thee  go  ; 

The  ocean  is  our  foe, 

And  these  mad  breakers  throw 

Fresh  terror  on  the  strand." 
«« But  what  of  him  out  there, 
Abandoned  to  despair  ? 
Has  be  no  mother's  care?" 

Asked  Harro  oar  in  hand. 

Again  she  pleading  cried  : 

"  Give  o'er  thy  spirit's  pride, 

Come  to  my  lonely  side, 

Nor  perish  in  the  storm." 

130 


In  vain  ; — the  four  and  he,  Harro 

With  sturdy  arm  and  free, 
Sent  through  the  seething  sea 

The  life-boat's  glorious  form. 

They  conquered  wave  and  blast. 
And  safely  clutched  at  last 
The  mast  where  still  clung  fast 

The  wretch  about  to  die  ; 
When  Harro  then  straightway 
Clomb,  without  pause  or  stay, 
To  where  that  lone  one  lay 

All  stark  against  the  sky. 

With  more  than  tender  care 
His  burden  he  did  bear 
Unto  his  comrades  there, 

Who  clove  the  air  with  cheers  ; 
But  when  they  saw  the  face 
Upturned  to  his  embrace, 
Another  joy  did  lace 

Their  cheeks  with  silent  tears. 

Homeward,  with  heartening  song, 
They  drove  the  boat  along, 


Harro  Mid  joys  that  there  did  throng 

From  perils  all  had  braved  ; 
And  when  they  neared  the  shore, 
'Twas  Harro  shouted  o'er : 
"  Good  mother,  grieve  no  more, 
'Tis  Uwe  we  have  saved." 

INVOCATION   TO  SAN   FRANCISCO 

READ  AT  THE    UNITARIAN    CLUB   DINNER  ON  MARCH  19, 
AT  WHICH  WAS  DISCUSSED  "MUNICIPAL  PROBLEMS. 

O  City  of  our  life  and  hope, 

That  sittest  by  this  westmost  sea, 

Thy  lovers  pray  thy  widest  scope, 
And  deepest  in  the  yet  to  be. 

May  Learning's  temples  rear  their  towers 

Above  thy  unpolluted  ways, 
And  all  the  strength  of  all  thy  powers 

Build  only  what  good  men  can  praise. 

May  stranger  ships  bring  costly  bales 
From  every  near  and  distant  land, 

And  in  return  thy  winged  sails 

By  prosperous  winds  he  ever  fanned. 
132 


May  all  the  arts  with  newer  life,  Invocation 

And  greater,  sing  their  highest  notes ; 

Francisco 
While  over  all  with  glory  rife 

The  flag  of  peace  divinely  floats. 

O  City  of  our  life  and  hope, 

That  sittest  by  this  westmost  sea, 
So  long  as  we  have  strength  to  cope, 

God  lead  that  strength  to  truth  and  thee. 


MY   FRIEND 

He  had  completeness :    Gentleman  and  Man 
Bloomed  in  his  nature  a  composite  flower ; 
The  grace  and  elegance  of  mien  that  can 
Alone  assure  us  that  the  subtile  power 
Of  pure  refinement  every  action  rules, 
High  culture,  dignity  and  gentleness, 
All  these  were  his.     And  in  the  sterner  schools, 
Where  none  but  souls  that  vigorously  press 
Forever  onward  win  the  world's  success, 
He  was  as  sturdy  as  a  man  might  be. 
And  with  it  all,  pretentious  ne'er  was  he, 
But  went  his  way  with  charming  modesty. 

133 


In   Memoriam 


My  dear,  departed  boy,  these  songs  I  lay 
Upon  the  urn  that  holds  thy  hallowed  clay; 
Wrung  from  the  fibres  of  my  heart  they  arc  — 
That  heart  which  wears  immedicable  scar. 


P.  T.  T. 


But  six  and  twenty  years  on  earth  he  knew ; 
And  from  the  time  his  eyes  first  saw  the  day, 
Until  death  blinded  them  forever,  they 
Cast  but  affection's  glances  from  their  blue. 

And  in  their  light  such  confidences  grew 

And  genial  joys,  that  home  became  the  stay 
That  held  him  fast  when  he  was  far  away 
And  once  more  drew  him  to  his  cherished  few. 

Machinery  was  his  goddess  at  whose  shrine 
With  nimble  fingers  and  inventive  brain 
He  poured  unstintedly  his  life's  best  wine. 

So  young,   so  good,   to  die  !      That  sad  refrain, 

Wet   with    his    dear    ones'    tears    that    blend   with 

mine, 
Makes  heavier  my  intolerable  pain. 


137 


AMONG   THE   WHEELS 

TO    P.     T.     T. 

With  heavy  heart  I  went  amid  the  hum 

Of  whirring    wheels    that  owe  their  life  to  thee, 
And  where  thou  hadst  full  often  greeted  me 
With  love  that  made  it  more  than  joy  to  come ; 

But  all  their  music  was  to  me  as  dumb 
As  if  thy  hand  had  never  set  it  free  : 
For  thy  dear,  welcoming  face  I  could  not  see, 
And  Grief  but  added  to  her  bitter  sum. 

Then  Peace  drew  near  me  and  upon  my  head 
Most  softly  laid  her  spirit-soothing  palm, 
As  with  the  gentlest  tenderness  she  said  : 

Remember,  after  storm  there  must  be  calm  ; 

And  know,  these  wheels  now  sing  rejoicing  psalm 
For  him  who  lives  in  them  though  he  be  dead. 


138 


DREAMS 


I  know  not  why  so  wearisome  to  me 
My  necessary  tasks  appear  to-day, 
Save  that  my  brood  of  dreams  is  fain  to  play 
Where  all  things  beautiful  are  wont  to  be. 

This  very  moment  do  I  feel  so  free 

That  nought  could  hold    me  under  tasking  sway, 
As  borne  beyond  the  city's  strenuous  way 
I  float  in  soundless,   calm  serenity. 

And  now  the  mountains  woo  me  on  and  on, 
And  many  a  lake  lays  bare  her  crystal  breast, 
While  scene  on  scene  its  pillared  beauty  rears. 

O  dreams  that  mock  !  for  from  me  HE  has  gone 
Who  shared  these  joys  with  me ;  and  grief-oppressed 
I  sink  to  earth  o'erweighted  with  my  tears. 


'39 


TO  P.  T.  T. 


The  strangest  thing  that  ever  came  to  me, 
Since  first  my  being  conscious  feeling  knew, 
Was  that  relentless  pain  which  pierced  me  through 
When  Death  unmerciful  had  power  o'er  thee  : 

That  thou  nowhere  in  all  this  world  canst  be, 
Thy  voice  forever  mute  that  rang  so  true, 
Oh,  who  can  sound  the  depths  of  such  adieu 
Till  made  acquainted  with  its  agony? 

But  when  I  saw  thee  in  thy  coffin  laid, 
A  rare,  new  beauty  shone  upon  thy  face 
So  gracious  and  so  wonderful  to  see, 

That  Death's  own  self  I  could  not  then  upbraid, 
For  through  my  tears  my   vision  seemed  to  trace 
Thy  flight  to  higher  than  mortality. 


140 


DIRGE 


In  these  sad  days  when  Joy  outspreads  her  wing 
Grief's  unrestrained  pursuers  to  elude, 
Sudden  she  feels  the  shaft,  and  thence  subdued 
Falls  down  to  earth  a  wounded,  anguished  thing. 

Then  Grief  from  out  her  loneliest  cave  doth  bring 
Upon  the  scene  her  melancholy  brood, 
And  bids  no  note  of  happiness  intrude 
As  these  alone  in  dirge's  numbers  sing: 

Oh,  mourn  for  him  who  in  his  promise  died ; 
For  him  who  held  his  course  by  Duty's  pole ; 
For  him  whose  cup  of  love  was  filled  to  brim. 

Remember  how  he  stood  when  he  was  tried, 

Remember  those  great  hopes  that  stirred  his  soul, 
Remember  all  he  was,  and  mourn  for  him. 


141 


OUT   OF   THE   SHADOW 


I  would  not  have  the  world's  regardless  eyes 
Rest  on  this  verse  made  consecrate  with  tears 
For  him  who  in  the  blossom  of  his  years 
Sank  down  o'erburdened,  nevermore  to  rise; 

But  those  alone  whose  unavailing  cries 

Have  risen  like  mine  for  all  the  heart  endears 
I  would  have  here  to  pause,  and  in  his  bier's 
Deep  shadow  share  my  bosom's  agonies. 

Yet  as  Grief  hands  the  bitter  cup  around, 
And  deeper  grows  the  shade's  intensity, 
My  soul  may  hear  some  new,  far-falling  sound ; 

And  midst  its  throbs  divine  it  then  may  be 

That  Life  will  stream  with  richer  thought  on  me, 
And  Death  seem  monarch  with  effulgence  crowned. 


142 


TO   DEATH 


Thou  monster  Death,  that  dost  no  mercy  show- 
To  least  or  greatest  of  the  earthly  train  ; 
That  hast  made  horrible  thine  endless  reign 
With  tear-cemented  monuments  of  woe  ! 

Thou  angel  Death,  that  kindly  dost  bestow 
Release  from  hopeless  ill,  from  torturing  pain, 
And  from  life's  whirling  flood  where  fiercely  strain 
The  desperate  souls  that  faint  and  sink  below  ! 

Like  Love  thou  art  as  old  as  oldest  eld, 
Yet  ever  new  as  is  the  wondrous  child 
This  moment  blossomed  on  its  mother's  breast ; 

And  since  the  time  that  thou  wast  first  beheld, 
When  Order's  music  rang  through  Chaos  wild, 
Life  has  by  thee  been  nourished  and  caressed. 


ENVOY 

TO    P.    T.    T. 

Thy  work  is  done,  and  what  thou  hadst  to  do 
Was  wrought  with  faithfulness  and  all  thy  might, 
Nor  darker  made  is  now  my  sorrow's  night 
By  thought  that  thou  wast  ever  less  than  true. 

What    flowers    more    sweet     than    these    could    Love 

bestrew 

On  tomb  of  any  man  though  Son  of  Light 
With  dazzling  fame  immaculately  white, 
Or  conquering  one  whose  sword  its  millions  slew  ? 

Thy  mortal  ashes  rest  within  the  urn  ; 
Thy  fleshly  substance  is  dissolved  in  air 
Or  throbs  with  newer  life  in  many  a  cell ; 

Thy  spirit  is  a  star  whose  light  will  burn, 
We  trust,  so  deeply  and  divinely  fair, 
That  Grief  herself  shall  feel  that  all  is  well. 


144 


Translations 


Why  heed  the  critics  who  delight  to  dart 
Their  sneer-tipped  arrows  at  translator's  art  ? 
The  poet's  work  remains  his  own  at  last 
Though  it  in  other  languages  be  cast, 
And  in  the  sky  of  Fame  it  still  will  shine 
By  that  which  made  it  at  the  first  divine. 
But  in  this  foreign  dress  some  soul  may  see 
A  hint  of  that  which  fascinated  me j 
Some  deep  impression  be  still  deeper  made 
When  by  our  muse-beloved  tongue  conveyed  ; 
Some  beauty  be  with  newer  beauty  set ; 
Some  thought  that  will  with  fresh  emotion  fret 
Some  gentle  breast,  or  with  strange  music  sweep 
O'er  heaving  waters  of  the  spirit's  deep. 


FROM   A   WINNOWER   OF   GRAIN   TO 

THE   WINDS 
(AFTER  JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY) 

Nimble  troop,  to  you 

That  on  light  pinion  through 
The  world  forever  pass, 
And  with  a  murmuring  sweet 
Where  shade  and  verdure  meet 
Toss  gently  leaf  and  grass, 

I  give  these  violets, 

Lilies  and  flowerets, 
And  roses  here  that  blow, 
All  these  red-blushing  roses 
Whose  freshness  now  uncloses, 
And  these  rich  pinks  also. 

With  your  soft  breath  now  deign 
To  fan  the  spreading  plain, 
And  fan,  too,  this  retreat, 
Whilst  I  with  toil  and  strain 
Winnow  my  golden  grain 
In  the  day's  scorching  heat. 


'47 


FROM   THE   MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS    OF 
VOLTAIRE : 

TO   A   LADY 

ON  SENDING  HER  A  RING  ON  WHICH  WAS 
ENGRAVED  THE  AUTHOR'S  PORTRAIT 

These  features  Barier  graved  for  you  alone  : 
O  deign  to  find  them  fit  for  you  to  see: 
Yours  in  my  heart  were  better  cut,  and  own 
A  master  greater  far  than  he. 


TO    MADAME   DU   CHATELET 

ON  RECEIVING  HER  PORTRAIT 

O  living  image,  features  dear, 
Of  that  fond  object  of  my  passion's  smart  ! 
Yet  that  which  love  has  graved  upon  my  heart 

Than  this  is  thousand  times  more  near. 


148 


TO    A    PRATER 

In  writing,   thought  should  lead  the  way  :  from 

Better  erase  the  senseless  blot.  Poltaire 

Authors  at  times  write  on  without  a  thought, 

As  some  speak  oft  without  a  word  to  say. 


EPIGRAM 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  MONSIEUR  D'AUBE,  NEPHEW  OF 
MONSIEUR  DE  FONTENELLE 


Who  is  it  knocks?  said  Lucifer. —  From 

Open,    'tis  d'Aube.      At  this  name's  stir,  Poltairc 

All  helldom  fled  and  left  him  lone. 
Oh,  oh  !  said  d'Aube,   this  land,   I  see, 
Treats  me  as  Paris  treated  me  : 
Whene'er  I  made  a  call,   I  found  not  anyone. 


149 


EPIGRAM 

From       Know  you  that  noteless  poetaster  who, 
Voltaire    Dust_drv  and  stiff,  is  cold  and  hard  all  through; 
Having  the  slanderer's  bite  without  his  art, 
Who  ne'er  can  please  much  less  can  wound  the  heart ; 
Who  for  misdeeds  in  prison  walls  did  fare, 
And  afterwards  was  flogged  at  Saint-Lazare, 
Chased,  beaten  and  detested  for  his  crimes, 
Disgraced,  despised,  derided  for  his  rhymes  ; 
And  who,  contented  in  a  cuckold's  sty, 
Chatters  about  himself  unceasingly  ? 
Eh  !  'tis  the  poet  Roy,  at  once  all  cry. 


ISO 


FAREWELL   TO   LIFE 

AT  PARIS,    1778. 

Farewell  ! — the  country  I  go  to  From 

Still  holds  my  late  dear  father  yet;  Voltaire 

My  friends,  farewell  fore'er  to  you 

Who  may  for  me  bear  some  regret. 

Laugh,   enemies,  for  so  to  do 

Will  pay  the  usual  requiem  debt. 

Still,   some  day  you  may  feel  concern  : 

For  when  to  darksome  shores  consigned, 

Your  works  you  there  would  seek  to  find, 

On  you  the  laugh  will  have  its  turn. 

When  on  the  stage  of  human  life 
A  man  can  play  his  part  no  more, 
On  leaving,   all  the  air  is  rife 
With  hisses  to  his  exit  door. 
I've  seen  in  their  last  malady 
Full  many  a  one  of  differing  states  : 
Old  bishops,   aged  magistrates, 
Old  courtesans,  in  agony. 
In  vain,   all  ceremoniously, 
Together  with  its  little  bell 


Farewell    Came  sacred  gear  of  sacristy; 
Vainly  the  priest  anointed  well 
Our  friend  in  his  extremity; 
The  public  laughed  with  malice  fell ; 
A  moment  satire  joyed  to  dwell 
On  all  his  life's  absurdity; 
Then  even  his  name  no  one  could  tell — 
The  farce  had  reached  finality. 
And  now  my  utmost  bound  I  own, 
What  man  needs  less  compassion's  tear? 
JTis  he  alone  knows  nought  of  fear, 
Who  lives  and  dies  to  fame  unknown. 


152 


THE   TOMB   AND   THE    ROSE 
(FROM  "LES  voix  INT£RIEURES  "   OF  VICTOR  HUGO) 

The  Tomb  said  to  the  Rose:   "Love's  own, 
What  mak'st  thou  of  the  tears  bestrown 
By  lovely,   dewy  dawn  o'er  thee  ?  " 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Tomb  :   "And  pray, 
What  comes  of  that  which  feeds  alway 
Thy  gulf  that  yawns  eternally?" 

Then  said  the  Rose:   "O  sombre  Tomb, 

I  make  of  them  a  rare  perfume 

Where  honey  with  the  amber  lies." 

Then  said  the  Tomb  :    "  O  plaintive  Flower, 

Of  every  soul  that  feels  my  power 

I  make  an  angel  of  the  skies  ! ' ' 


'53 


COME    NEAR   ME   WHEN   I    SLEEP 
(FROM  "LES  RAYONS  ET  LES  OMBRES  "  OF  VICTOR  HUGO) 

Oh,  when  I  sleep,  come  closely  to  my  couch 

As  did  fair  Laura  to  Petrarca's  side, 

And  as  I  feel  thy  breathing's  balmy  touch  .   .   . — 

Sudden  my  lips 

Will  part  to  thine. 

When  on  my  brow,  where  then  perchance  some  dream 

Of  darkness  settles  which  too  long  would  bide, 

Thy  lovely  eyes  look  down  with  starry  beam  .   .   . — 

Sudden  my  dream 

Will  brightly  shine. 

Then  if  my  lips,  whose  fluttering  flame  has  learned 

Love's  lightning  God  himself  has  purified, 

Are  kissed  by  thee — to  woman  angel  turned  .   .   . — 

Sudden  will  wake 

This  soul  of  mine. 


154 


IN   THE   CEMETERY   OF  .... 
(FROM  "LES  RAYONS  ET  LES  OMBRES"  OF  VICTOR  HUGO) 

The  laughing  living  crowd  by  folly  still  is  led, 

At  times  where  pleasure  rules,  at  times  where  anguish 

lies, 

But  here  these  all  forgotten,   silent,  lonely  dead 
On  me,  a  dreamer,  fix  their  sad,  regardful  eyes. 

They  know  me  to  be  man  of  solitary  mood, 

A  musing,   strolling  one  who  on  the  trees  attends, 

The    soul    that    sadly    learns,    from    sorrow's    countless 

brood, 
In  trouble  all  begins,  in  peace  all  trouble  ends  ! 

They  well  do  know  the  pensive,  reverent  mien  of  mine 
Mid  crosses,  graves  and  boxwood,  and  they  mutely  list 
To  fallen  leaves  that  'neath  my  careless  foot  repine, 
And    they    have  seen  me    dream   in  woods    the  shades 
have  kissed. 

O  blatant  living  ones  of  strife  and  mad  unrest, 
My  flowing  voice  falls  better  on  these  dead  ones*  ears  ! 
My  lyre's  sweet  hymns  that  lie  deep  hidden  in  my  breast 
That  are  but  songs  for  you,  for  them  are  gushing  tears. 

155 


In    the     Forgotten  by  the  living,  nature  still  is  theirs : 

Cemetery    jn  garcjen  of  the  dead  where  each  shall  end  his  dreams, 
of  .    .    . 

In  more  celestial  garb,   and  calmer,   dawn  appears, 

Still  lovelier  is  bird,   and  lily  purer  seems. 

'Tis  there  I  live  ! — there  pluck  the  rose  of  pallid  face, 
Console  with  tombs  that  lie  in  desolation  rent ; 
I  pass,  repass,   the  branches  gently  there  displace, 
And  stir  the  sighing  grass  ;  the  dead  they  are  content. 

'Tis  there    I    dream ;    and    roaming  many  a  drowseful 

space, 

With  thought-enwidened  eyes  I  marvellously  see 
My  soul  transformed  as  in  a  magic-haunted  place, 
Mysterious  mirror  of  the  vast  immensity. 

The  wandering  beetles  there  I  indolently  watch, 
The  wavering  branches,  forms,  and  color-glinting  gleams, 
And  on  the  fallen  stones  reposing  love  to  catch 
The  dazzlings  of  the  flowers  and  of  the  myriad  beams. 

JTis  dream's  ideal  fills  my  wondering  eyesight  there, 
Floating  in  shining  veil  between  the  earth  and  me  ; 
And  there  my  ingrate  doubts  are  melted  into  prayer: 
For  standing  I  begin  and  end  upon  my  knee. 


As  in  the  rock,  whose  hollow  drips  in  sunlcsr  gloom,      In    the 

For  drop  of  water  seeks  the  thirsty,   humble  dove,  ;^ 

of  .   .   . 
So  now  my  altered  spirit  seeks  the  shadeful  tomb, 

To  drink,  if  but  a  sip,   of  faith,   of  hope  and  love. 


WHAT   IS   HEARD    ON   THE   MOUNTAIN 
(FROM   "LES  FEUILLES  D'AUTOMNE"  OF  VICTOR  HUGO) 

Has  it  so  been  that  you  in  calmful,   silent  wise, 
Have  pushed  to  mountain's  top  in  presence  of  the  skies  ? 
Was  this  on  banks  of  Sund  ?  on  shores  of  Brittany  ? 
And  at  the  mountain's  foot  did  you  the  ocean  see? 
And  leaned  o'er  surging  wave,   and  o'er  immensity, 
In  silent  wise  and  calmful,  have  you  bent  your  ear  ? 
'Tis  this  befalls  :   at  least,  one  day  at  dream's  command 
My  thought  had  drooped  in  flight  above  a  shimmering 

strand, 

And,  to  the  briny  depths  plunging  from  summit  sheer, 
On  one  hand  saw  the  sea,  on  the  other  saw  the  land ; 
And  listening  there  I  heard  a  voice  whose  parallel 
Ne'er  issued  from  a  mouth  and  on  an  ear  ne'er  fell. 


157 


What  is     At  first  its  sound  was  full,  confused,  all  unconfmcd, 

ear        More  vague  than  in  the  tufted  trees  the  sighing  wind  ; 
on  the 


Mountain  ^"^   P^erc^nS    concords    filled,  with    murmurs  suavely 

low  ; 

Sweet  as  an  evening  song,  as  harsh  as  armors'   shock 
When  fight's  red  furies  round  the  maddened  squadrons 

flock, 
And   in    the    clarion's   mouths  with   battle's   fierceness 

blow. 

'Twas  music  past  all  thought,  with  notes  divinely  deep, 
Which,  fluid,  round  the  world  unceasingly  did  sweep, 
And  in  the  boundless  heavens,  its  waves  fore'er  renewed, 
Rolled,  in  its  orbit's  greatening,   endless  vastitude, 
To  lowest  depths  profound,  until  its  flow  sublime 
Was  lost  in  dark  with  Number,  Form,  and  Space,  and 

Time  ! 

As  with  another  air,  dispersed,  outreaching  wide, 
The  globe's  whole  body  felt  the  hymn's  eternal  tide  ; 
And  as  the  world  is  wafted   in  its  airy  sea, 
So  now  'twas  wafted  in  this  mighty  symphony. 

Then  the  ethereal  harps  swept  o'er  my  pensive  soul, 
Lost  in  their  voice  as  in  great  ocean's  surging  roll. 


And  soon  I  then  discerned,   clouded  and  dissonant,          What  is 

Two  voices  in  this  voice  each  with  the  other  blent,         tieard 

on  the 
Overflowing  all  the  earth  to  very  firmament,  »,          . 

That  hymned  together  there  the  universal  chant ; 
And  in  their  roar  profound  mine  ear  caught  every  stave, 
As  one  two  currents  sees  which  cross  beneath  the  wave. 

One  came  the  waters  o'er :  blest  hymn  !  a  glory-song  ! 
It  was  the  voice  of  waves  that  spoke  in  happy  throng ; 
The  other  from  the  land  that  rose  where  now  we  are 
Was  sad;  it  was  men's  murmur  rising  near  and  far; 
And  in  this  diapason,  which  day  and  night  sang  on, 
Each  billow  had  its  voice,  each  man  his  separate  tone. 

But,  as  Fve  said,  the  Ocean,  vast,  magnificent, 
A  mild  and  joyous  voice  through  endless  spaces  sent ; 
Like  harp  in  Zion's  fanes  it  burst  in  swelling  note, 
And  with  creation's  praise  song  filled  its  raptured  throat. 
His  music,  borne  by  zephyrs  as  by  gales  that  fly, 
Incessantly  toward  God  in  triumph  mounted  high, 
And  when  each  throbbing  wave,  that    God  alone  can 

quell, 

Had  quired  in  joy  another  rose  in  songful  swell. 
Like  that  great  lion  of  whom  brave  Daniel  was  the  guest, 


159 


What  is     At    times   the    Ocean's  voice    dropped    low  within  his 

Heard  breast, 

on  the 

•*.       .   .     And  then  I  deemed  I  saw  toward  the  fiery  West 
jYiountain 

Upon  his  mane  of  gold  the  hand  of  God  impressed. 

Yet,   nathless,   by  the  side  of  this  so  great  fanfare 
The  other  voice, — like  cry  of  steed  in  maddening  scare, 
Like  rusted  hinge  of  gate  that  guards  Hell's  quenchless 

fire, 

Like  brazen  bow  drawn  o'er  the  strings  of  iron  lyre, — 
Ground  harsh  ;  and  insult,  tears,   anathema,  and  cries, 
Viaticum,  baptism,   refused  by  him  who  dies, 
The  blasphemy  and  curse  and    rage    from  mouths  that 

rave, 

In  human  clamor's  whirling,   all-devouring  wave, 
Passed    by,   as  in    the  vale  where  shuddering    shadows 

cling 

Do  Night's  ill-omened  birds  with  dusky,  hideous  wing. 
What  was  that  sound  which    made  a   thousand  echoes 

rise  ? 
Alas  !  it  was  the  earth  and  man  all  torn  with  cries. 

Brothers,  of  these  two  voices,   the  strangest  ever  sped, 
That  cease  not  though  reborn,  and  cease  not  being  fled, 

1 60 


That  shake  the  eternal  ear  with  everlasting  stroke,  What  is 

HUMANITY  in  one,  in  the  other,   NATURE  spoke. 

on  the 

Thought  brooded  o'er  me,  for  my  faithful  spirit  then 
Alas  !  had  never  yet  attained  to  such  high  ken, 
Nor  had  such  lustrous  light  illumed  my  shadeful    day; 
And  I  considered  long,   turning  at  times  away 
From  that  obscure  abyss  the  billows  hid  from  me 
To  the  other  gulf  that  filled  my  own  immensity. 
And  then  I  asked  myself,  why  is  it  we  are  here, 
What  is  this  life  and  what  its  agony  and  tear, 
And  what  the  soul,   and  why  should  any  being  be  ? 
Why  should  the  Lord,  who  reads  alone  his  book,  decree 
Eternally  to  blend  in  hymen's  fatal  tie 
The  song  of  nature  with  the  human  race's  cry? 


161 


THE   PELICAN 
(FROM  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET'S  "LA  NUIT  DE  MAI") 

When  wearied  pelican  returns  from  lengthened  quest 
Unto  his  lonely  reeds  where  evening  mists  hang  low, 
His  famished  little  ones  all  shoreward  wildly  go 
On  seeing  him  afar  alight  on  billow*  s  crest. 
And  then  believing  spoil  is  theirs  to  seize  and  share, 
With  joyous  cries  they  to  their  father  quickly  fare, 
As  o'er  their  hideous  goitres  shake  their  ravening  beaks. 
With  dragging  step  and  slow  he  gains  a  towering  rock, 
Where  shielding  with  his  pendent  wings  his  starving  flock 
He,   melancholy  fisher,   all  the  sky  bespeaks. 
From  out  his  open  breast  the  blood  makes  copious  way, 
For  vainly  sought  he  ocean's  depths  on  eager  wings  ; 
They  empty  were  and  even  the  strand  was  stripped  of  prey  ; 
And  now  for  nourishment  his  heart  alone  he  brings. 
Sombre  and  silent,   stretched  upon  the  lonely  stone, 
The  father  shares  his  deepest  with   the  sons  his  own ; 
And  in  this  love  sublime  he  rocks  his  dolor  till, 
As  he  views  flowing  fast  the  crimson  of  his  breast 
And  sinks  and  staggers  by  this  feast  of  death  possessed, 
Joy,  tenderness  and  horror  all  his  senses  thrill. 
162 


But  mid  this  sacrifice  divine  at  moments  he  The 

Is  sickened  with  the  thought  of  too  long  agony,  Pelican 

For  now  he  sees  his  children  will  but  give  him  death. 

Then  rising  up  he  opes  his  wings  to  ocean's  breath, 

And  striking  hard  his  heart  with  madly  savage  cry, 

Along  the  night  his  woeful  farewell  notes  so  roll 

That  all  the  sea-birds  from  the  shore  in  terror  fly, 

And  traveller  there  belated,  feeling  death  is  nigh, 

With  dread's  appalling  fears  commends  to  God  his  soul. 

THE    POET 
(FROM  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET'S  "LA  NUIT  DE  MAI") 

O  Muse  !  thou  most  insatiate  sprite, 
Do  not  demand  so  much  of  me. 
Man  nothing  on  the  sand  doth  write 
When  blows  the  north-wind  bitterly. 
Time  was  my  youthful  lips  were  stirred 
And  ever  ready  as  a  bird 
With  ceaseless  song  the  hours  to  speed ; 
But  I  have  borne  such  pangs  of  fire, 
That  were  the  least  that  I  desire 
Essayed  by  me  upon  my  lyre, 
It  then  would  break  it  as  a  reed. 


IMPROMPTU 

IN   RESPONSE   TO   THE   QUESTION: 
WHAT   IS   POETRY? 
(AFTER  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET) 

To  drive  the  chase  in  every  hallowed  spot 

By  Memory  haunted,  and  the  captured  thought, 

All  tremulous,  uncertain,  firm  to  hold 

Balanced  on  axis  glorious  of  gold  ; 

To  stamp  eternity  upon  the  dream 

Which  but  an  instant  lights  him  with  its  gleam; 

Deeply  to  love  the  beautiful  and  true, 

And  their  harmonious  virtues  to  pursue  ; 

In  his  own  heart  to  look  and  list  unto 

The  echo  of  his  genius  ;  all  alone 

To  sing,   to  laugh,   and  make  his  tearful  moan, 

Thereto  unprompted  by  design  or  guile  ; 

Out  of  a  sigh,  a  word,  a  look,   and  even  a  smile, 

A  work  of  art  consummately  to  rear 

Full  of  sweet  charmingness  and  moving  fear  ; 

A  radiant  pearl  to  fashion  from  a  tear : 

Such  is  the  passion  of  the  poet's  strife, 

His  boon,  his  great  ambition,  and  his  life. 


SONG 
(AFTER  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET) 

Good  morn,   Suzon,  my  woodland  flower ! 

Art  still  the  prettiest  thing  to  see? 
I  have  returned,  as  thou  must  know, 

From  wondrous  trip  to  Italy! 
Of  Paradise  I've  made  the  round — 
Have  written  verse — in  Love  been  bound  .   . 
What's  that  to  thee  ! 
What's  that  to  thee  I 
Before  thee  comes  thy  waiting  one  : 
Ope  thy  door  ! 
Ope  thy  door ! 

Good  morn,  Suzon! 

I  saw  thee  in  the  lilacs'   time, 

When  thy  free  heart  was  in  its  bud, 
And  thou  did'st  say:   "I've  no  desire 

For  love  as  yet  to  stir  my  blood." 
Since  then,  what,  pray,   has  been  thy  fate  ? 
Who  leaves  too  soon  returns  too  late. 
What' s  that  to  me  ? 
What's  that  to  me? 

.65 


Song       Before  thee  comes  thy  waiting  one  : 
Ope  thy  door  ! 
Ope  thy  door  ! 

Good  morn,  Suzon  ! 


ADIEU,    SUZON! 

SONG 
(AFTER  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET) 

Adieu,   Suzon,  my  sweet,  blonde  rose, 
Who  for  a  week  has  made  me  blest : 
Of  all  the  world's  supreme  delights, 
The  short  amour  is  oft  the  best. 
Ah,  whither  shall  my  errant  star, 
On  leaving  thee,   tempt  me  to  stray? 
Yet  I  must  go,  my  little  one, 
With  hastening  pace,   and  far  away, 
Still  ever  on. 

I  leave  thee  ;  on  mine  eager  lip 
Burns  once  again  thy  parting  kiss  ; 
Within  mine  arms,  imprudent  dear, 
1 66 


Thy  beauteous  head  finds  soothing  bliss.  Adieu 

Feel'st  thou  my  heart's  delirious  beat? 
How  thine  doth  make  responsive  play! 
Yet  I  must  go,  my  little  one, 
With  hastening  pace,   and  far  away, 
Fore'er  thine  own. 

Paf!  that's  my  horse  they're  saddling  now; — 
When  on  the  road,  how  then  withstand 
The  perfume  of  thy  baleful  hair, 
That  has  so  scented  all  my  hand  ! 
Thou  hypocrite,  I  see  thee  smile 
While  running  off  in  nymph-like  play. 
Yet  I  must  go,  my  little  one, 
With  hastening  pace,  and  far  away, 
Still  laughing  on. 

Oh,   all  of  sadness  and  of  charm, 

Dear  child,  is  in  thy  fond  adieu  ! 

'Tis  maddening  joy  to  see  thy  heart 

Shine  in  thine  eyes  thy  tear-drops  through. 

In  life,   thy  trancing  look  allures  ; 

In  death,   'twill  be  my  latest  stay. 

Yet  I  must  go,  my  little  one, 


Adieu,      With  hastening  pace,   and  far  away, 
Suzon  Lamenting  on. 

Oh,  that  our  love,   shouldst  thou  forget, 
Might  for  one  moment  be  revived 
Like  some  bouquet  of  drooping  flowers 
Within  thy  charming  bosom  hived  ! 
Adieu  :  good  fortune  stays  at  home ; 
But  memory  shall  not  say  me  nay: 
And  that  I'll  take,  my  little  one, 
With  hastening  pace,   and  far  away, 
'Neath  every  sun. 

MARY   STUART'S   FAREWELL 
(AFTER  BERANGER) 

Farewell,  delightful  land  of  France, 
Where  all  my  love  doth  lie  ; 
Home  of  my  childhood's  gay  romance, 
Farewell  !  to  leave  thee  is  to  die. 

O  thou  adopted  country  mine, 
That  seest  me  banished  from  thy  shore, 
List  to  thy   Mary's  sad  farewell, 
And  guard  her  memory  evermore. 
168 


The  wind  is  up,   we  quit  the  strand, 
And  all  my  tears  and  sobs  are  vain  ; 
God  will  not  stir  the  angry  waves, 
To  beat  me  back  to  thee  again. 

Farewell,   delightful  land  of  France, 

Where  all  my  love  doth  lie ; 
Home  of  my  childhood's  gay  romance, 
Farewell !  to  leave  thee  is  to  die. 

When  thy  loved  people  saw  me  wreathed 
With  thy  resplendent  fleur-de-lis, 
My  charms  in  all  their  springtime  bloom 
Won  plaudits  rank  could  ne'er  decree. 
Ah,  vain  the  royal  pomp  and  state 
The  gloomy  Scot  intends  for  me  ; 
I  would  not  wish  to  be  a  queen, 
Unless  to  reign,  as  once,  o'er  thee. 

Farewell,  delightful  land  of  France, 

Where  all  my  love  doth  lie  ; 
Home  of  my  childhood's  gay  romance, 
Farewell  !  to  leave  thee  is  to  die. 

Love,  glory,  genius,  these  have  filled 
With  too  much  joy  my  beauteous  days  j 
169 


Mary 
Stuart's 
Farewell 


Mary      In  Scotia* s  rough,  uncultured  land 
Stuart's    My  fate  wiu  find  far  different  ways> 
Farewell 

Alas  !  already,  big  with  doom, 

An  omen  bids  my  heart  stand  still ; 
For  I  have  seen,  in  dreadful  dream, 
A  scaffold  raised  my  blood  to  spill. 

Farewell,  delightful  land  of  France, 

Where  all  my  love  doth  lie  ; 
Home  of  my  childhood's  gay  romance, 
Farewell !  to  leave  thee  is  to  die. 

Dear  France,  in  midst  of  all  her  fears 
The  daughter  of  the  Stuart  line, 
As  on  this  day  which  sees  her  tears, 
Will  turn  toward  thee  as  to  a  shrine. 
But,   God  !  the  ship  with  rapid  keel 
Already  bends  'neath  foreign  skies, 
And  night  draws  down  her  dewy  veil, 
To  screen  thee  from  my  weeping  eyes. 

Farewell  !  delightful  land  of  France, 

Where  all  my  love  doth  lie ; 
Home  of  my  childhood's  gay  romance, 
Farewell !  to  leave  thee  is  to  die. 
170 


FIFTY   YEARS 
(AFTER  B£RANGER) 

What  mean  these  flowers  ?     Is  it  my  fete  ? 
No ;  this  bouquet  now  comes  to  say, 
That  half  a  century  on  my  head 
Is  rounded  and  complete  to-day. 
How  many  days  fleet  fast  along  ! 
How  many  moments  fruitless  pass ! 
How  many  wrinkles  tell  their  tale  ! 
I'm  fifty  years.      Alas !     Alas  ! 

At  such  an  age  we  nothing  hold ; 
The  fruit  dies  on  the  sallowing  tree — 
But  some  one  knocks ; — yet  open  not : 
My  part  is  ended,  that  I  see. 
I'll  wage  some  doctor  thrusts  his  card, 
Or  'tis  the   Times;  ah,   day  there  was, 
I  would  have  said :  That  is  Lisette. 
Fm  fifty  years.     Alas  !     Alas  ! 

Old  age  is  cursed  with  biting  ills : 
The  gout  is  murder's  willing  tool ; 
Blindness  for  us  welds  prison  chains ; 

171 


Fifty       While  at  our  deafness  mocks  the  fool. 
Tears      Then  reason,  like  expiring  lamp, 

Burns  faint  and  trembling  ere  it  pass. 

O  children,  honor  hoary  age. 

I'm  fifty  years.     Alas!     Alas! 

Heavens !  Here's  Death  ; — rubbing  his  hands 
With  joyous  glee,  he  comes  apace. 
'Tis  gravedigger  that's  at  my  door ; 
Farewell,  good  sirs  of  every  race  ! 
Below,  are  famine,  pest  and  war; 
Above,  the  stars'  resplendent  mass. 
Open,  while  God  remains  to  me. 
I'm  fifty  years.     Alas !     Alas ! 

But  no ; — 'tis  you  !  my  welcome  friend, 

Sister  of  Charity  of  loves ! 

You  draw  my  sleeping  soul  from  out 

The  horrid  thoughts  wherein  it  moves  ; 

Strewing  the  roses  of  your  youth, 

As  does  the  Spring,  where'er  you  pass, 

And  sweetening  all  an  old  man's  dreams. 

I'm  fifty  years.     Alas !     Alas ! 


172 


JACQUES 
(AFTER    BERANGER) 

Dear  Jacques,  I  must  bid  thee  awake  : 
A  bailiff  scours  the  village  round, 
With  keeper  following  at  his  heels. 
Poor  man,  they  come  the  tax  to  take. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

Look  out  and  see  :   the  night  is  gone  ; 
Never  before  hast  slept  so  late  ; 
Thou  know'st  to  sell  to  old  Remi, 
That  one  must  stir  before  the  dawn. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,   get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

We've  not  a  sou  !     O  God  of  fate  ! 
I  hear  him  ;  how  the  dogs  do  bark ; 
He  will  demand  a  whole  month's  pay. 
Ah,  if  the  King  could  only  wait  ! 


173 


Jacques     Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up  : 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

Oh,  how  the  poor  are  stripped  and  flayed  ! 
So  crushed  are  we,  we  own  all  told, 
For  us,  thy  father  and  six  boys, 
Nought  but  my  distaff  and  thy  spade. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

They  count  that  with  our  wretched  hut 
An  acre's  fourth  is  far  too  much  ; 
Yet  that  with  hopeless  misery  reeks, 
While  this  by  usury's  scythe  is  cut. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

So  much  of  pain,  of  gains  so  few. 
When  shall  we  taste  pork  flesh  again  ? 
Ah,  strengthening  food  is  all  so  dear  ! 
And  even  the  salt,  and  sugar,  too  ! 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 


174 


Some  wine  to  thee  would  courage  bring  ;  Jacques 

But  then  the  laws  are  close  and  hard  ; 
My  dearest,  for  some  drink  for  thee 
Go  sell  at  once  my  wedding  ring. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

Couldst  dream  that  thy  good  angel  would 
To  thee  bring  plenty  and  repose  ? 
Dost  think  taxation  bites  the  rich  ? 
Their  barns  to  all  the  rats  give  food. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,   get  up  : 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

He  enters  !     Heavens  !      O  woe  of  woes  ! 
Thou  speak' st  no  word  !     Thou  art  so  pale  ! 
On  yesterday  thou  mad'st  some  wail, 
From  whom  before  no  murmur  rose. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up : 
Here's  the  good  bailiff  of  the  King. 


175 


Jacques     Her  cries  are  vain :  there  is  no  life. 

For  him  who  wears  toil's  thorny  crown 
Death  is  a  pillow  soft  as  down. 
Good  people,  pray  ye  for  his  wife. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up : 
Here's  the  good  bailiff  of  the  King. 


THE   VASE 
(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

Take,  shepherd  of  the  goat  and  of  the  frugal  ewe, 
This  two-eared  vase,  well-waxed,   and  from  the  chisel 

new. 

Its  wood  still  fragrant  smells,  and  round  its  edge  enwind 
The  ivy's  verdurous  leaves  with  helichrysum  twined 
And  clustering  fruits  of  gold.     Ah,  firm  the  hand  and 

fine 

That  here  did  carve  this  form  of  woman  so  divine  ; 
With  peplum  graced  and  brow  enwreathed  with  flowers 

she  smiles 
At  her  contending  suitors  with  their  fruitless  wiles. 


Upon  the  rock,  his  feet  in  tangled  wrack  where  he       The  Vase 
Now  drags  his  long  net  toward  the  smooth  and  glaucous 

sea, 

A  fisher  comes  apace ;  and  though  with  age  bent  o'er, 
His  rigid  muscles  swell  as  strains  he  more  and  more. 
Near  by  a  laden  vine  with  ripened  grapes  bends  low, 
'  Neath  which  a  young  boy  sits  to  guard  it  from  the  foe ; 
But  two  sly  foxes  steal  upon  the  other  side, 
And  eat  the  grapes  as  they  behind  the  branches  hide, 
The  while  the  child  inweaves,  from  fragile  straws 

with  care, 

And  from  some  blades  of  rush,  a  deft  cicala-snare ; 
While  all  around  the  vase  and  Dorian  plinth  thou'lt  see 
The  acanthus  leaf  displayed  in  beauty's  luxury. 

This  masterpiece  has  cost  me  pains  and  money  too — 
A  cheese  both  large  and  fresh,  and  fine,  young  pregnant 

ewe. 

Shepherd,   'tis  thine  whose  songs  are  sweeter  far  to  me 
Than  figs  of  ^Egilus,  and  wake  Pan's  jealousy. 


177 


SOLAR   HERCULES 
(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

O  pang-born  Tamer  who  as  swaddled  infant  killed 
The    Night's    fell    Dragons  !     O    thou  Warrior,   Lion- 
Heart, 
Who    pierced    bane-breathing  Hydra  with  thy  burning 

dart 
Where     poisonous    mist    and    mire    their   livid    horrors 

spilled  ; 

And  who  with  flawless  sight  of  old  saw  Centaurs  start 
At  precipices'   verge  and  wheel  with  rearing  breast ! 
Of  all  the  genial  Gods,  the  eldest,  fairest,  best ! 
O  purifier  King,  who  through  thy  glorious  days, 
Made,  as  so  many  torches,  from  the  East  to  West, 
The  sacrificial  fire  on  every  summit  blaze  ! 
Thy  golden  quiver's  void,  the  Shade's  at  last  thy  goal. 
Hail  Glory  of  the  Air  !     All  vainly  thou  dost  tear, 
With  thy  convulsive  hands  where  flames  in  rivers  roll, 
The    bloody    clouds    which    wreathe    thy  pyre  divine, 

and  there 
In  purple  whirlwind  now  thou  yieldest  up  thy  soul  I 


178 


THE   CONDOR'S   SLEEP 
(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

Beyond  the  Cordilleras'   stairs  that  steeply  wind, 
Beyond  black  eagle's  haunts  in  mist-enshrouded  air, 
And  higher  than  the  cratered,  furrowed  summits  where 
The  boiling  flood  of  lava  rages  unconfined, 
His  pendent  pinions  tinct  with  spots  of  crimson  dye, 
The  great  bird  silent  views,   with  indolent,  dull  stare, 
America  and  space  outreaching  boundless  there, 
And  that  now  sombre  sun  which  dies  in  his  cold  eye. 
Night  rolls  from  out  the  East,  where  savage  pampas  lie 
Beneath  the  tier  on  tier  of  peaks  in  endless  line ; 
It  Chili  lulls,  the  shores,  the  cities'   roar  and  cry, 
The  grand  Pacific  Sea,   and  horizon  all  divine  ; 
The  silent  continent  its  close  embraces  hide : 
On  sands  and  hills,  in  gorges,   on  declivities, 
And  on  the  heights,  now  swell,  in  widening  vortices, 
The  heavy  flood  and  flow  of  its  high-rolling  tide. 
Upon  a  lofty  peak,  alone,  like  spectre  grim, 
Bathed  in  a  light  that  spills  its  life-blood  on  the  snow, 
He  waits  this  direful  sea  that  threats  him  as  a  foe : 
It  comes,  it  breaks  in  foam,  and  dashes  over  him. 
179 


The       In  the  unfathomed  depths  the  Southern  Cross  doth  loom 

Londor  s    Upon  the  sky's  vast  shore  a  pharos-shining  light. 
Sleep 

His  rattling    throat  speaks   joy,  he    proudly  shakes  his 

plume, 

His  muscular,  peeled  neck  he  lifts  and  stretches  tight ; 
To  raise  himself  he  gives  the  hard  snow  lashing  stings ; 
Then  with  a  raucous  cry  he  mounts  where  no  winds  are, 
And  from  the  dark  globe  far,  far  from  the  living  star, 
In  the  icy  air  he  sleeps  on  grand,  outspreading  wings. 


1 80 


R 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

TO   A    DEAD    POET 
(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

Thou  whose  delighted  eye  roamed  eagerly  and  free 
From  hues  divine  to  forms  in  strength  immortal  grown, 
And  from  the  fleshly  to  the  heavens'  star-splendored  zone, 
In  that  dark  night  which  seals  thy  lids  peace  be  to  thee. 

To  see,  to  hear,   to  feel?     Breath,  dust  and  vanity, 
To  love  ?     That  golden  cup  has  but  the  bitter  known. 
Thou'rt   like  some  wearied  God  who  leaves  his  altars 

lone, 
To  mingled  be  with  matter's  vast  immensity. 

Upon  thy  mute  grave  where  thy  mouldering  body  lies 
Whether  or  no  the  tears  are  poured  from  sorrowing  eyes, 
Whether  thy  banal  age  forget  thee  or  acclaim, 

I  envy  thee  thy  silent,   darksome  bed  below, 
Forever  freed  from  life  and  never  more  to  know 
Man's  horror  of  his  own  existence  and  the  shame. 


181 


MY   SECRET 
(AFTER  FELIX  ARVERS) 

My  soul  its  secret  has,  my  life  its  mystery  : 
'Tis  an  eternal  love  an  instant  saw  conceived. 
My  pain's  beyond  all  hope,  so  silent  I  must  be, 
While  she,  the  cause,  knows  not  that  I  am  sore  bereaved. 

Alas  !     I  shall  have  passed  anear  her  unperceived, 
Still  by  her  side,  and  yet  a  lonely  one  to  see, 
And  shall  have  served  on  earth  to  life's  extremity, 
Not  daring  aught  to  ask,  and  having  nought  received. 

Though  God  has  made  her  sweet  and  infinitely  dear, 
With  heedless  mind  she'll  go  her  way,  and  never  hear 
The  murmuring  of  love  that  doth  her  steps  attend. 

Beneath  the  pious  yoke  of  duty's  rigid  sway, 

When  she  reads  o'er  this  verse  all  full  of  her,  she'll  say, 

"  This  woman,  who  is  she  ?  "  and  will  not  comprehend. 


182 


THE   LADY'S   ANSWER 
(AFTER  LOUIS  AIGOIN) 

My  friend,  wherefore  aver,  with  so  much  mystery, 
That  the  eternal  love  within  your  breast  conceived 
Is  pain  beyond  all  hope,  a  secret  that  must  be  ; 
And  why  suppose  that  she  may  know  not  you're  bereaved? 

Ah  no,  you  did  not  pass  anear  her  unperceived, 
Nor  should  you've  deemed  yourself  a  lonely  one  to  see  ; 
The  best  beloved  may  serve  to  life's  extremity, 
Not  daring  aught  to  ask,  and  having  nought  received. 

The  good  God  gives  to  us  a  knowing  heart  and  dear, 
And  on  our  way  we  find  that  it  is  sweet  to  hear 
The  murmuring  of  love  that  doth  our  steps  attend. 

She  who  would  meekly  bow  to  duty's  rigid  sway, 
Reading  your  verse  of  her,  felt  more  than  she  can  say  : 
For    though    she    spake  no  word,   .   .   .   she  well    did 
comprehend. 


'83 


OF  THF 

UNIVEP 

OF 


PHILOSOPHY 
(AFTER  TAINE) 

Two  sages  well  have  known  the  verity  supreme  ; 
But  wrongly  each  the  other  condemns  and  says  him  nay  ; 
One  tells  us  :      "  Bear  thou  up,  be  strong  and  patient 

aye"; 
The  other  :    "  Happy  be,  enjoy  each  moment's  dream.'* 

Zeno  and  Epicurus,   on  the  antique  trireme, 
To  either  shore  have  pressed  too  closely  on  their  way; 
While  we,  in  seeking  port,  have  stranded  even  as  they. 
And  yet    the    cats    have  solved    the    problem's    knotty 
scheme  : 

The  pleasure  as  it  comes,  the  pain  that  will  not  fly, 
You,  Puss,  accept  unquestioned  ;  and  the  sun  on  high, 
When  in  the  boundless  blue  at  eve  he  journeys  hence, 

Sees  you,  in  circle  couched,  as  at  morn's  earliest  call, 
Without  an  effort  happy,   and  resigned  to  all, 
Serenely  smooth  your  tail  in  calm  indifference. 


184 


MY   BOHEMIA 

A    FANTASY 
(AFTER  ARTHUR  RIMBAUD) 

With  fists  in  tattered  pockets  forth  I  strayed, — 
My  great-coat,   too,  not  far  from  raggery, — 
Beneath  the  skies,   O  Muse,  most  true  to  thee  ; 
And  there  what  radiant  love-dreams  round  me  played  ! 
My  only  breeches  gaped  with  holes  as  I, 
Poor,  little  dreamer,  many  a  rhyme  dropped  where 
My  footsteps  fared  ;  mine  inn  the  heavens'  Great  Bear, 
'Neath  stars  whose  soft,  sweet  rustlings  filled  the  sky. 

I  heard  them  as  I  sat  by  roadsides  when 
September's  eves  were  steeped  in  balm ;  and  then, 
As  with  strong  wine,  my  face  was  wet  with  dew  ; 
And  rhyming  midst  fantastic  shades  I  made 
Of  my  torn  shoe's  elastics,   worn  and  frayed, 
A  lyre  as  near  my  heart  my  foot  I  drew. 

NOTE.— Mr.  Lloyd  Mifflin  calls  my  attention  to  the  original  of  this  sonnet 
and  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  George  Moore,  in  his  "  Impressions  and  Opinions," 
says  that  Rimbaud  wrote  it  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years,  and  that  it  was  never 
before  published  until  it  was  published  in  hii  (Moore's)  volume  with  title  as 
above 


185 


THE   VIOLET 
(AFTER  GOETHE) 

Unknown  a  violet  bowed  its  head 
Where  meadow  in  its  beauty  spread — 
A  violet  fresh  and  lovely, 
As  youthful  shepherdess  came  there, 
And  with  light  step  and  winsome  air 
Along,   along, 
The  meadow  went  and  sang. 

"Ah!"  thought  the  violet,   "would  that  I 
Were  grandest  flower  beneath  the  sky, 
Instead  of  violet  lowly, 
By  her  dear  hand  to  be  uptorn 
And  on  her  gracious  bosom  worn, 
If  but,  if  but, 
A  little  quarter-hour." 

But  ah  !  on  it  the  maiden  bent 
No  glance  at  all,   but  as  she  went 
The  violet  poor  she  trampled. 
Yet  still  it  sank  in  joyful  state  : 
"  I  die,  indeed,   but  glorious  fate, 
Through  her,   through  her, 
And  at  her  very  feet." 

186 


THE   ANGLER 
(AFTER    GOETHE) 

The  water  rushed  in  swelling  flow ; 

An  Angler  plied  his  art 
As  sat  he  filled  with  calm,   and  cool 

Up  to  the  very  heart ; 
And  as  he  lurked  with  slyness  there, 

And  motionless  did  spy, 
Amazed  he  saw  the  tide  upheave, 

Divide  itself  on  high, 
And  from  the  cleft  a  Naiad  rise 

Before  his  dazzled  eye. 

She  sang  to  him ;  she  spake  to  him  : 

"  My  brood  why  dost  thou  snare, 
With  human  wit  and  human  craft, 

To  scorching  death  of  air? 
Ah,   friend  of  mine  !  if  thou  wouldst  know 

What  joys  my  children  share 
Upon  the  ground  where  they  disport, 

Unknown  to  ills  or  care, 
Thou  shouldst  descend  and  be  at  once 

Rejuvenated  there. 


The        "Do  not  the  Sun  and   Moon  repose 
Angler  Refreshed  on  Ocean's  breast? 

Turn  not  their  welcome  faces  there 

Upon  us  doubly  blest, 
As  from  the  sparkling  wave  they  rise 

With  newer  life  imprest  ? 
Allure  thee  not  the  Heavens  deep, 

The  humid,  glorious  Blue? 
Decoys  thee  not  thy  mirrored  form 

Down  to  perpetual  dew?" 

The  water  rushed  in  swelling  flow ; 

It  laved  his  naked  feet ; 
His  heart  unconsciously  grew  full 

Of  fond  desire's  heat, 
As  if  his  own  beloved  had  come 

His  offered  kiss  to  meet. 
She  spake  to  him  ;  she  sang  to  him  ; 

No  hand  could  intervene : 
She  drew  him  half,  half  sank  he  down 

And  nevermore  was  seen. 


188 


UNDER   THE   LINDEN 
(FROM  GOETHE'S  FAUST) 

All  for  the  dance  the  shepherd  dressed ; 
In  ribbon,  wreath  and  coloured  vest, 

Sprucely  himself  arraying  ; 
Beneath  the  Linden's  green  expanse 
The  crowd  began  like  mad  to  dance  ; 

Huzza  !     Huzza  ! 

Hey-day-hey  !     Hey  !     Hey  ! 

The  fiddle-bow  went  playing. 

With  eager  haste  into  the  mass 
He  hotly  pressed,   against  a  lass 

His  elbow  sharply  sending  ; 
The  blooming  wench  turned  quick  about, 
And  cried,   "You  gawky,   stupid  lout !  " 

Huzza !     Huzza  ! 

Hey-day-hey  !     Hey  !     Hey  ! 

"Your  manners  need  amending." 

Still  swiftly  sped  the  dance-delight 
From  right  to  left,  from  left  to  right, 
The  petticoats  a-flying  ; 

189 


Under      Until  at  last,   all  red  and  warm, 

They  rested,  panting,   arm  in  arm, 
Linden 

Huzza  !     Huzza ! 

Hey-day-hey  !     Hey  !     Hey  ! 
With  hips  'gainst  elbows  lying. 

"Stand  off,   good  sir!   come  not  so  near 
Full  many  a  one  his  dearest  dear 

Has  cheated  in  Love's  riddle!" 
But  ah  !  he  wheedled  her  aside, 
While  from  the  Linden  sounded  wide 

Huzza  !     Huzza  ! 

Hey-day-hey  !     Hey  !     Hey  ! 
The  shouts,   and  screams,  and  fiddle  ! 


190 


FAUST'S   WAGER 
(FROM    GOETHE'S  FAUST) 

Faust.     Should    I    lie    down   on    couch    of  indolence 

contented, 

Then  be  it  o'er  with  me  at  once  ! 
Canst  thou  with  guileful  praise  so  gull  me, 
That  self-approval  swells  my  breast ; 
Canst  thou  with  pleasure's  froth  delude  me, 
Then  be  that  day  my  very  last  ! 
This  wager  offer  I. 

Mepbisto.          Agreed ! 

Faust.  And  quickly  too  ! 

If  I  bespeak  the  passing  moment, 

"  Oh,   stay,   so  beautiful  thou  art  !  " 

Then  mayst  thou  clap  me  fast  in  fetters, 

Then  utter  ruin  be  my  part  ! 

Then  let  the  death-bell  sound  its  numbers, 

Then  be  thou  from  thy  service  free, 

The  clock  may  stop,  its  hands  be  broken, 

And  Time  be  past  and  gone  for  me  ! 


191 


MARGARET  AT   THE   SPINNING   WHEEL 
(FROM   GOETHE'S  FAUST) 

My  heart  is  heavy, 
My  peace  is  o'er, 
No  more  I'll  find  it, 
No,  nevermore. 

Not  him  to  have 
Is  as  the  grave, 
And  bitter  all 
The  world  as  gall. 

Oh,  this  poor  head 
Of  mine  is  crazed, 
And  my  poor  sense 
Is  racked  and  dazed. 

My  heart  is  heavy, 
My  peace  is  o'er, 
No  more  I'll  find  it, 
No,  nevermore. 


192 


From  the  window  I 
Him  only  would  sec,       * 
When  I  quit  the  house 
*Tis  with  him  to  be. 

His  stately  step, 

His  figure  grand, 

His  mouth's  witching  smile, 

His  eye  of  command, 

His  talk  that  flows 
Like  stream  of  bliss, 
His  hand's  fond  clasp, 
And  ah,   his  kiss  ! 

My  heart  is  heavy, 
My  peace  is  o'er, 
No  more  I'll  find  it, 
No,   nevermore. 

My  bosom  strains 
Toward  him  fore'er  ; 
Oh,   could  I  fold 
And  hold  him  there  ! 


Margaret 
at  the 

Spinning 
Wheel 


'93 


Margaret  And  kiss  him  till 

at  the  ,,     ,  , 

My  heart  ran    dry, 
Spinning 

on  kis  kisses 


Enraptured  die  ! 


THE   HUNTER   OF   THE   ALPS 
(AFTER   SCHILLER) 

Wilt  thou,   son,   not  guard  the  lambkin — 
Lambkin  mild,  my  dearest  charge  ; 

Feeding  from  the  grasses'  flowers, 

Playing  by  the  brooklet's  marge? 

Mother,   mother,   let  me  go 

Up  the  mountain  with  my  bow  ! 

Wilt  thou  not  call  up  the  cattle 

With  the  lively,  echoing  horn? 

Clearly  sound  the  bells  and  sweetly, 
On  the  forest  breezes  borne. 

Mother,   mother,   say  I  may 

In  the  mountain's  wildness  play. 


194 


Wilt  thou  not  attend  the  flowers  The 

Standing  kindly  in  their  bed?  Hunter 

of  the 
Gardens  there  do  not  invite  thee,  ^4 IDS 

Wild  the  mountain's  rugged  head. 
Let  the  buds  untended  blow  ; 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go ! 

And  the  boy  with  bounding  gladness 

Sallies  forth  upon  the  chase  ; 
Rashly  reckless,  blindly  venturing 

To  the  mountain's  darkest  place, 
Where  before  the  hunter  fell 
Flies  like  wind  the  scared  gazelle. 

Up  the  ribs  of  rocks  all  naked, 

Flies  she  with  the  nimblest  step  ; 
Over  crags'   wide-gaping  fissures 

Speeds  she  with  unerring  leap  ; 
But  behind,  the  heedless  boy 
Follows  fast  with  murderous  joy. 

Now,  of  all  the  rugged  summits 

Hangs  she  on  the  highest  place, 
Where  the  cliffs  sink  down  abruptly, 

With  of  path  no  sign  or  trace  ; 

195 


The        Steepy  heights  she  sees  below, 

Hunter      And  fehind,  the  nearing  foe. 
of  the 
Alps        With  dumb,  pleading  look  of  anguish 

Begs  she  mercy  of  her  foe  ; 
Begs  in  vain,  for  now  the  arrow 

Threats  to  leave  the  bended  bow  ;- 
When  from  out  the  rock's  cleft  face 
Steps  the  Genius  of  the  place ; 

And  with  hand  of  God-like  seeming 
Frees  the  beast  as  thunders  he : 

"  Must  thou  death  and  woe  be  sending 
So  they  cry  even  up  to  me  ? 

Earth  for  each  and  all  has  room, 

Why  dost  mark  my  herd  for  doom  ? ' ' 


196 


LOVE   AND   TIME 

(FROM  A  PROSE  TRANSLATION  BY  PROFESSOR  ALBIN 
PUTZKER  OF  A  MODERN  GREEK  POEM) 


My  Dear  and  I  one  summer  day 

Toiled  up  the  mountain*  s  rugged  way, 

And  as  we  slowly  fared  along 

With  heartening  speech  and  snatch  ot  song, 

Eros  and  Chronos  with  us  walked, 

And  lightly  laughed  and  gayly  talked. 

But  as  we  traveled,  Love  and  Time 

Began  to  fast  and  faster  climb; 

When  cried  I  out,   "  Sweet  Eros,  stay, 

Oh,  do  not,  do  not,  haste  away ; 

My  Love  can  scarce  maintain  thy  pace, 

And  fain  would  rest  a  little  space. " 

But  no  response  or  word  came  back 
Along  the  mountain's  winding  track, 
But  spreading  out  their  wings,  the  two 
Now  faster  and  still  faster  flew, 
Until  I  saw  in  wild  dismay 
Their  figures  fleeting  fast  away, 

197 


Love       And  shouted,   till  my  breast  was  sore, 
**«        My  earnest  pleading  o'er  and  o'er: 

"  My  friends,   Oh,  whither  do  you  fly? 

Is  it  to  place  beyond  my  cry  ? 

My  love  no  farther  step  can  go, 

And  will  you  then  desert  her  so?" 

But  all  in  vain  :   their  rapid  flight 

Soon  bore  them  from  my  straining  sight, 

And  as  they  vanished,   on  mine  ear 

Fell  saddest  words  a  man  might  hear  : 

"  Know'st  not  the  truth,  which  lives  for  aye, 

That  Love  with  Time  will  flit  away  ? ' ' 


THE   SOLDIER'S   FATE 
(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PROFESSOR  ALBIN  PUTZKER) 

Now  tumultuous  war 

Draws  the  youth  afar 

Out  from  fatherland 

Unto  alien  strand. 

Wounded  on  the  field  of  battle  lies, 
Underneath  the  blistering  torrid  skies, 

198 


Bleeding  fast,   the  son,   the  child  so  dear,  The 

His  beloved,  helping  ones  not  near. 

Fate 
How  the  wound  burns  ! — Oh, 

Who  his  pains  can  know  ! 

Anguished  to  the  bone 

Lies  he  there  alone. 
Round  him  only  matted  jungles  grow 
Where  the  fatal  ball  has  laid  him  low ; 
Noxious  marsh  is  all  his  pillow  there, 
And  his  cover  nought  but  stifling  air. 

Now  into  his  breast, 

Where  life's  joys  had  pressed, 

Creeps  with  blasting  breath 

He,  sole  rescuer — death. 
"Mother,   dearest,"   soft  he  murmurs  o'er; 
And  the  burning  wound  then  burns  no  more  ; 
From  his  tender  heart  all   pain  has  gone  ; 
Ours  in  bitter  grief  to  suffer  on. 


199 


BENEDICTION 

My  Mother  dear,   these  songs  of  many  days 

Are  now  the  world* s  to  scorn ,   or  blame,   or  praise  / 

But  could  they  shine  with  something  of  the  grace 

That  bloomlike  lay  upon  thy  lovely  face, 

The  best  of  them  might  well  aspire  to  rise 

In  Love1  s  own  arms  to  Fame1  s  star-gloried  skies. 

It  may  be  that  an  idle  dream   I  chase ; 

But  Spirit  blest,  from  thy  exalted  place 

Oh,   bend  above  them  and  with  angel  heart 

Give  them  thy  blessing  as  they  now  depart. 


INDEX 

Adieu,  Suzon!            .         .         .         •         •    '    •         •         •   l66 
Adversity  «          .  23 

After  the  Storm         .         ,         .         .         •         •         •          -5° 

Aldrich,  On  the  Lyrics  of 92 

Alfred  de  Musset,  From      .         .         .         .        ..         .         •   l6* 

Ambition X9 

Among  the  Wheels *38 

AndreVs  Carrier  Pigeon,  To    .          .         *         .         .          •        II6 

Angler,  The       .          .        • l87 

April    .         .         .         ...         • ,  •          •         •          55 

Arria     '    .         S        .         .          . I25 

A.  S.  T.       .         .       f. IQ7 

Attainment         .          .          .          •         •          •         •         •          .      I0 

Balzac,  To 7* 

Bayard  Taylor's  Poems,  Written  in  a  Soiled  Volume  of     .          .100 

Beatitude .         .          .  42 

Beauty      .         . 49 

Benediction  . 2O1 

Beranger,  From l68 

Bonzig,  To    .          .' I23 

Browning,  To 71 

Bryant,  To 93 

Burns,  To 8 1 

Byron,  To 7^ 


203 


Carlyle,  To        .         •         ••••»••     74 
Cemetery  of  ,  In  the       .,••#»         J$5 

Christopher  Smart       .          .         .          .          ,          .          .          .89 

Come  Near  Me  When  I  Sleep        .         .         .         .         .        154 

Concentration     .          .          .          .          .          ,          ,          .          .18 

Condor's  Sleep,  The        .         .         .         ,         .         *         .        i?9 
Consolation         .          .          .          .          .          ,          .          ».io 

Convent  Garden,  In  the  .          .          .         .          .          .126 

Cooper,  To  Professor  .          .          .         .         »          .          .107 

C.  S.  K.,  To '.         .        117 

Curtis,  To  George  William          .         .         .         .         .         .no 

Dawn •••  31 

Dawn,  On  Picture  Painted  by  William  Keith  entitled        .          .59 

Dead  Poet,  To  a 181 

Death,  To .          .    143 

Dedication     .........  iii 

Deliverance         .........      3^ 

Del  Monte,  At ,  5* 

Dirge 141 

Divine  Harmony,  The .          29 

Dream       .          .          .          .          .          ...4.4 

Dreams  .....          »         •         •         •        *39 

Du  Chatelet,  To  Madame  .          .          .         .         .         .         .148 

Dying  Year,  The 62 

Enchanted  Wood,  The         .         .         .         .    '    .    '     .         .58 

Endeavor        .........  26 

Endure,  Thou  Fainting  Soul         ......     40 

Envoy 144 

Epigram 149 


204 


Epigram •         •             '5° 

Farewell  to  Life     .         .         .         .      -  .  .         .        15* 

Faust's  Wager    .                    .                    .         .  .          .          .19* 

Felix  Arvers,  From          .          .          •          .  .          •          .182 

Fifty  Years ..          .          .   171 

From  a  Winnower   of  Grain    to   the    Winds  .          .          .         14? 

Fruitless  Quest,  The   .                   .         .         .  .         .          .63 

Goethe,  From         .         .          .          .          .  .         .          .186 

Goethe,  To                  .          .          .         .          .  .          .          .69 

Golden  Heritage,  The     .                    ,          .  .         .          .           53 

Goldsmith,  To   .      ,  .         .         .         .         .  •         .         .84 

Halleck,  To  Fitz-Greene          .          .          .  .        ..          .         101 

Harro        . 127 

Henley,  On  Looking  into  Poems  of          .  .          .          .           87 

Heredia,  To                  .         .          .          .          .  .          .          -73 

Henry  George         .         .         .          .          .  .          .          .115 

Home       ...........       8 

Hunter  of  the  Alps,  The         .         .          .  .          .          .194 

In  Humble  Praise .65 

In  Memoriam          .          .          ,         .          .  .          .                   135 

In  Tribute         .          •         •          .          .          .  .          .          .   105 

Jacques            .          .          .          .          .          •  •          •          .173 

Jonquil,  The       .          ...          .          .  .          •          .48 

Jordan,  To  David  Starr  .          »         ,         .  .          .          .         in 

Joy  of  Earth,  The      .         .         .         .         ...         •     54 

Keats,  To     .         .        .        ;        f        .  .        .        .         77 

205 


Keith,  To  William          .          .         .          .         .         .          .  .      1 1  a 

Lady,  To  a                  .         .         .          .         .         .         .  .148 

Lady's  Answer,  The        .         .         .         .         .'.         .  183 

Lamb,  To .         ..  .      85 

Landor,  To. ••  83 

Landscapes  Painted  by  William  Keith,  On  Some    .          .  .53 

Lane,  To  Dr.   Levi  Cooper 108 

Leconte  de  Lisle,  From .176 

Life  and  Death      ........  2,2 

Lloyd  Mifflin,  To .      96 

Longfellow,  After  an  Evening  with            .          .          »•         .  91 

Louis  Aigoin,  From    .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .   183 

Love  and  Time      .          .          .          ,          .          .          .          .197 

Love's  Fears       .          .          . 33 

Lowell,  To  James  Russell        .          .          .          .          .          .  90 

Marble  Statuette  of  Beatrice,  To  a  .          .          .          .30 

Margaret  at  the  Spinning  Wheel      .          .          .          .          .         191 

My  Friend  W.    H.  T.,   To 114 

Mary  Stuart's  Farewell   .          .          .          .          .          .          .168 

Matthew  Arnold,  To  .......      70 

Meadow,  The         ........  57 

Milton,  To 68 

Moods i 

My  Bohemia      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .185 

My  Friend    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  133 

My  Lady  Sleeps 5 

My  Muse 3 

My  Secret i8a 

My  Summer  ........          35 

206 


Nature's  Care  of  Her  Own          .         .         .         •        .  •          •     45 
Night  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .          51 

Now         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         *         .     15 

Old,   Old  Days,  The       .......          *o 

On  Nature's  Breast     .          .          .         .         .         .          .          .43 

Out  of  the  Shadow         .          /        ,          .         •          .   '  142 

Pelican,  The      .          .          .  .          .          .          .          .162 

Perpetua         .          .  1*4 

Philosophy          .          .          .          .         .    ^     .          .          .          .184 
Pine  Not,  Nor  Fret         .......  41 

Poe 95 

Poet,  The     .........  10 

Poet,  The   (After  De  Musset) 163 

Poetic  Art    .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .  22 

Pope         .         . 92 

Prater,  To  a  .      >  .          .  .          .          .149 

Prayer       .          .          .          .  .          .          .          .          -9 

Prayer,  A      .          ...          .          .          .          •          •  39 

Presidio  of  San  Francisco,  At  the          .          .          .          .  47 

Promise         .........  64 

Proof  of  God II 

P.  T.  T.       .         .         .          .          .          .          .          .          .         137 

P.  T.  T.,  To  .         .*. 14° 

Putzker,  From   Professor  .          .          .          .          .          .         197 

Question    ..........     24 

Quiet  Wood,  The    '  56 

Rearden,   On  Reading   Posthumously  Published  Volume  of  113 

Refuge 44 


207 


Reverie          ••»•         •••         •         •          •          .  7 

Rimbaud,  From           .         ;,          ,          .         .          .  .185 

Ruskin,  To   .          .          .         .          .          .          .          «x       •  &8 

San  Francisco,  Invocation  to         .         9         .         .          .  .132 

Sawmill,  The         ...••••'.  38 

Schiller,  From              .          .          .         .         .         .          .  .194 

Shakespeare,  To      .          .          .          .         •         •         .          •  67 

Sierras,  To  the  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .46 

Sleep,  To .         .    '     .  6 

Solar  Hercules .  .178 

Soldier's  Fate,  The .  198 

Solitude '  .         .         .  .     ai 

Song 34 

Song 35 

Song    (lifter  De  Musset  ) 165 

Song  its  Own  Reward          .  28 

Sonnet,  To  the 25 

Sufficiency           .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  17 

Swinburne  on  his  Drama,  To            .....  86 

Taine,  From       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .184 

Tennyson,  To         ........  79 

Tennyson's  Good  Fortune    .          .          .          .          .           .  .80 

"The  Slopes  of  Helicon,"  Written  in  Lloyd  Mifflin's        .  97 

Thoughts ll 

Tomb  and  the  Rose,  The 153 

Translations         . 145 

Twilight  Time,  At 60 

Unceasing  Round,  The       .           .         .         .         .         .  »     6 1 

208 


Under  the  Linden  . 

Unfinished  Portrait,  The 


Vase,  The     ......         ..,176 

Victor  Hugo,  From    .         .         .         .         *         •      .  •  .   I53 

Violet,  The  .          .          ........  186 

Voltaire,  From  the  Miscellaneous  Poems  of  .          .          .  .148 

Walt  Whitman,  To         .......  102 

Watts,  To  George  Frederick         ......   103 

What  is  Heard  on  the  Mountain     .....  157 

What  is  Poetry?         .          .         .         •  „,      •          •          •  .164 

Whittier,  To          ........  98 

William  Blake,  To     .          ,         .         .         .         .          .  .88 

William  Watson,  To      .   .      ......  89 

Wordsworth,  On  Looking  at  Picture  of        .         .         .  •     75 

Work            ......         ...  37 


Ysay 


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